PRINCESS
by anivet
Summary: England is no longer the man he used to be. He's depressed, hateful, and cold. He begins to distance himself from the entire world, even to the point of hurting others so he himself will be spared of the trauma of love. America has taken up the job of bringing Arthur out of his spiraling depression, but how can he fix the man when he doesn't know how to be the hero he needs?
1. PROLOUGE

Disclaimer: We all know I don't own this so I won't even bother writing it again later.

PROLOGUE

Husky pants and moans filled the room, sweaty bodies moving, rubbing, sliding over one another. Rumpled bedding and twisted sheets rustled in the dim light, and the smell of sex and strawberry lube filled the cramped space of the cheap hotel room.

Francis uttered a guttural noise of satisfaction as he pressed deeper, further into the man below him, trying to make them as close as he could. Arthur responded in quiet pants and half-hearted moans, sounding nowhere near the ecstasy the nation above him seemed to be experiencing.

The Frenchman bowed his head low, trying to capture the blond's lips, but the pale man simply twitched his face away, avoiding the contact. France frowned as Arthur tried to play it off as a roll of his head due to the pleasure, but he had seen right through it. He always could. There was barely anything he didn't know about the island nation he was sharing such an intimate moment with. Being enemies for so many years and living for so long, you begin to learn things about them, and he knew more about his 'enemy' than any other person in the whole world did. England was an open book for him to read, to write in. To smudge the words and lines together until they become a single garbled mess of shapes and shades.

At least he thought so.

Lately, the Frenchman had noticed that the Brit had become distant from everyone else, even more so than usual. He wasn't in his 'splendid isolation' phase anymore, and his boss and leaders didn't seem to be heading in that direction… quite the opposite, actually. So there really was no excuse for him to be so cold shouldered and shifty towards every entity that made itself known to him.

France's pace began to slow and become sloppy; he was losing his blissful pleasure to the dark thoughts filling his mind. No, he couldn't, he had to finish, not for himself, but for Arthur.

The two of them were here for a reason, and he wasn't about to ruin the moment and, further more, piss off not only his, but England's boss as well.

The two were here on official business. They were here to strengthen the ties between their lands and improve the political negotiations of both of their governments. It was crucial for nations to sleep with one another to strengthen bonds between both interested parties. Being the personifications of the lands themselves, when any two nations got together for political reasons - any thing from trade, alliances, to economical propositions - when the two or more join, the link that connects them to their lands is affected, thus improving the land.

It wasn't very ideal, or even favored among those involved, but it was done. If not, the treaty or whatever was being worked on would fail. The science was complicated and hardly even made sense to them, but it worked. It was the only thing that did without fail. So they did it, quite frequently. It was nothing he nor England were new to.

It was never uncommon for nations to sleep with one another, business or not. It was always more of a fling; a way for them to acquire pleasure, seeing as they couldn't sleep with humans so their possibilities were limited. Not only that, but relations between them, as romantic, would never work.

Despite how much any one of them wished, it was impossible. The risk of being torn apart was too great; they had duties to their nations and no one else. If one was to have a platonic relation with another, they could easily be turned against one another thanks to their people or leaders, and forced to break apart or even try to fight to the death in war. So to avoid the pain, they all just avoided romantic endeavors all together.

Italy and Germany were two prime examples. Constantly being thrown together and torn apart by the needs of the nation itself. It was agonizing and utterly unbearable to deal with, so they finally just drifted apart. It was obvious that their infatuation still remained, as stolen glances and tense physical contact were all too clear. Both wanting to have the other, but slinking back from the desire, hiding behind smiles and polite conversation.

England let out a huff as he noticed France had practically stopped thrusting all together, just weak, slow rocks, not even sliding in and out.

"What?" He questioned. "Can't keep it up?"

"...Non," France uttered out. He had tried to distract himself from looking at the Brit by softly rubbing the milky thighs that rested around his hips.

The blond began to use his elbows as support, using a great effort to find the will to raise his upper body. "Do you need some assistance? Want me to suck you off or what not?" England's voice was detached, calm, like he was talking about the morning newspaper. It didn't fit the situation at all. But it was normal. Many nations had trouble actually getting off when sleeping with other nations. Morals and other things got in the way of finishing the job, and other measures of 'getting the job done' had often been necessary to keep things functioning the way they were planned.

Feelings constantly disturbed Francis' performance and got in his way.

The green orbs of light before him were dull and listless, bored, detached, the fiery spark that was present for nearly a thousand years was long gone from the tired eyes.

"Non, non, mon ami, that will not be necessary, merci." France began to lean forward, his tongue dashing over his lips nervously as he slowly began to reach for the beautiful ones in front of him. England began to lean back, his eyes full of worry, clearly annoyed as he began to crane his neck so that the blond could not touch his lips with his own.

"No."

"Eets just a kiss, Angleterre, its all I want from you, its all I need. Please." France felt bad for begging, but he needed this right now. He needed this from Arthur.

And he would have none of it. "NO." His voice was firm, stern and settled. France would not be receiving any lip contact from him if Arthur had any say in it.

"Why?"

"You know why."

He did. England didn't kiss. He wouldn't. It was special, a form of love. And he didn't have any to give. Not to anyone. Not to the world, and not to him.

Francis' eyes flickered away. To Arthur's chest, his belly, waist, and finally, where they were still connected at. His ass. France was still inside him and only growing more and more soft within the warm walls of flesh.

He felt sick. He pulled out with a limp dick and rocked back on his heels, head downcast. England had no love for him, he'd never had.

Never would.

It was clear. Painstakingly clear. It's why he dreaded having to sleep with Arthur at all, to have the one he craved - yearned for - so close to him, having SEX with him, and knowing it was only because they had to.

They weren't young anymore. Spunky hot hate sex had quickly turned into a slow, almost love making form. Well it was for Francis; for Arthur, it was more of a chore.

France could try to delude himself all he wanted while having sex, but the reality ebbed away at his fantasies of actually doing what they were as a couple, of having a valid reason beyond sexual tension or an arrangement from their bosses. Because they wanted to. Because they loved each other.

But France wasn't stupid. He couldn't let himself imagine such things. It was too dangerous, too naive.

And completely and utterly ludicrous. England didn't love him, didn't want him, didn't even care enough to even phone him on his birthday. Would never love him. But that was to be expected.

How could England love him when the island nation couldn't even love himself?

It was a cruel reality. THEIR reality. And there was nothing he could do about it. England wouldn't let him in, he wouldn't let anyone in.

It was why he kept himself distant.

It all clicked in France's mind like a piece of a puzzle, magically falling together until it created a clear picture of his predicament.

"Englan-"

"No. I will not kiss you. I will suck you off, do any kind of kink or role play you desire, but I will NOT kiss you." He informed, voice hard and dangerous. "Is that understood?"

"..." France didn't answer, he couldn't. There was nothing to say.

"So what will it be?"

Silence. Arthur waited and waited, quickly growing impatient with the French man before him. Arthur stared, gritting his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he clenched them to keep himself from socking the man before him.

"A kiss." Arthur began. France's eyes flickered open. He didn't look up, but he listened. "Is that what it's going to take? There's nothing else I can do? Nothing at all?" France's refusal to lift his head and face him was all the confirmation England needed.

He lifted himself up and began to lean forward, his head tilted so his lips made contact with Francis' cheek, lightly grazing the skin, making his flesh tingle from the touch. Arthur's hot breath cascaded over France's neck and ear, his body was rigid and trembling in anticipation. England's lips brushed the lobe of his ear as he whispered words too sweet for something so dark. "Then I have no business here."

France felt the world crash around him as England pulled away, taking his shattered heart with him, dislodging it from his chest and making away with it. A cruel look fell over Arthur's face as he sat on his heels. His eyes were cold and dark, a sadistic smirk graced his features as the realization hit France like a freight train.

England did it.

He ruined him.

He brought him close, had him on the edge, dangling on the Brit's every word… and cut the string letting him fall, only to never catch him, instead leaving him to shatter everywhere. He pulled him close, just to break him first, just to make sure the France would never have the chance to save himself.

England worked for it and succeeded.

He had won the battle.

France could only choke on his sobs as England clothed himself in silence. He pulled on his jacket and gave France one last look. But it wasn't a look of guilt, shame, or even pity. It was satisfaction. Pure, raw satisfaction.

He had said something, but France hadn't caught it. The sound of the door was much louder than his arrogant words were.

France could barely register the fact that neither of them had succeeded in finishing the job, and he couldn't even bring himself to care. But the thought of that also being part of England's scheme was evident, just another way to drive them further apart. Now not only were they as far apart as they could be as individuals, but the nations themselves would be distant from the other as well.

The thought he'd had previously crossed him mind, and his trembling body froze at it.

Many nations had trouble actually getting off when sleeping with others, as morals or other things got in the way of finishing the job and other measures of 'getting the job done' had often been necessary to keep things functioning the way planned.

He began to chuckle at that. Raw, pain filled hysterical laughter filled the room. If someone had heard him, they would have thought it was the cackle of a madman. And perhaps it was. But Francis was not concerned with his sanity. The words kept ringing through his skull, rebounding and crashing through the pillars of his brain and causing him to laugh louder and harder than he ever had in his life.

He didn't get off. Things got in the way.

LOVE got in the way.

And Francis could see why Arthur did what he did and it just made him laugh until he had tears pooling down his face, and slowly, his laughter dulled into heart wrenching sobs.

((Okay kiddies, that's it for the prologue. Next chapter will start off at the world conference, which means it will be similar to the original story, but it will different. But yeah, I told you all that I was going to make it somewhat like the original and I wasn't lying. this time. So yeah! Let me know how it was? And I'm sorry if its messy or hard to understand, I don't have spell check on my laptop, and the last time I checked, I wasn't a Webster... : T))


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The clock was driving him nuts. The constant tick, tick, tick, was making his eye twitch, and he was afraid that it would get so bad that his curl would become knotted. Lovino gripped the sides of his chair until his knuckles become white and his fingers throbbed in protest.

Why the hell did America have to have such a loud wrist watch? SERIOUSLY! It was ridiculous, although no one else seemed to mind or notice it. For once his seat wasn't near that annoying Spaniard - thank god - but now he was stuck sitting between the Hamburger Bastard and what's-his-face, the one who slept all day. Cat-Man Bastard? Lovino didn't know, nor did he care. All he knew was that America's stupid watch was louder than the sleeping man's snores.

It was driving him insane!

He wanted to just turn to him and slap the stupid tick out of that clock. How was no one else noticing it?! He knew if he said something about it he would just be told that he was annoyed that he wasn't near Spain - which WASN'T TRUE! He didn't need that stupid Tomato Bastard. He could do just fine sitting between these two idiots, if only that incessant TICKING would stop!

Romano twisted around quickly to glare at the man next to him but the American didn't seem to notice, his attention was else where, his face serious and a frown covering his features. Lovino followed his gaze to see what was so damn important that he couldn't realise his wrist watch was tick-tocking a hole in the Italian's skull.

His eyes fell upon England. The Tea Bastard was staring down at the paper before him, his expression far away, like he wasn't mentally there. Romano gave an annoyed huff; the stupid Hamburger Bastard needed to get his mind straight and shut that stupid watch off. Just when he was going to open his mouth to hiss the words out, England stood, slowly stumbling out of his chair, like he was unstable and had no energy. Romano could see the twitch of America's lips as his frown deepened and his eyebrows slightly creased together.

America and Romano weren't the only ones who noticed England's obvious effort to move across the room to the podium to speak; many other nations gave worried glances at the Brit as he cleared his throat. The noise was dry and raspy, like he hadn't opened his mouth to speak for a very long time.

"As the representation of the UK, I am here to discuss the recent trade alliances between mine and America's country. We have been told to strengthen the bond and will proceed to do that after this meeting." Some quick glances fell upon the American. His face hadn't changed from the concerned look he'd had when England had first stood up, and it was apparent it wasn't going to go away any time soon. Silent questions filled the room at England's words.

He was going to have to sleep with England? Was that a good idea?

Lovino couldn't really give a shit about those two sleeping together. It was none of his business really, and it didn't have anything to do with him or his country so he didn't give it any thought.

He could see France, who was sitting directly across from him, flinch and stare down at the table. Every since those two had failed to finish the business between their countries, they had been avoiding each other to the point that France would recoil from England whenever they even passed each other, and would practically bolt out of a room when he had the chance.

Romano didn't know what had happened between them, but ever since then, England had become even MORE distant and resistant to being around other people. The Italian didn't see what was up with that but, again, it didn't concern him at all. If the Tea Bastard didn't want to be socialable, so what? People were stupid anyway, quite frankly. Romano didn't blame him, but the Englishman didn't need to be such an ass to everybody. And despite how much he and France didn't get along, Romano couldn't think of anything he did to deserve whatever pain England had given him to make the 'country of love' so spiteful and hateful to the very THOUGHT of 'l'amour', or whatever stupid word the French man used to describe love.

"So anybody who has a problem with this arrangement needs to speak now." Needless to say, nobody raised their hands to display their displeasure to this act, but one voice did ring out.

"Are you sure that is a good idea, Arthur-san?"

"Why would you ask that?" Kiku began to get flustered and looked around for support. The looks he got drove on his words, despite his obvious discomfort to speaking, aloud if his violent blush was anything to go by.

"W-well, you see, you haven't been very...WELL as of late. You look very fatigued, and it seems as if you can barely stand."

"Yes, aru." China butted in, his voice was soft, yet loud enough to carry his words. "You have been very distant, physically and emotionally, from everyone else. Do you really think it wise to be doing such things in such condition?"

"My CONDITION is no business of yours, China." England's voice was sharp and spiteful, as if he was angry that the two Asians had even had the gall to talk to him, let alone in such a familiar way. "Thank you both for your concern, but I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions. Even if I DIDN'T want to do this - which I don't! I wouldn't be able to stop it anyway. It was an order from not only mine boss, but America's boss as well. We have no choice but to do this; you all know how this works. Don't think just because I refuse to be in any of your presence, I can avoid my duties as a nation"

"Why are you acting so cold towards us? We are just worried for you." China's voice was still soft and calm, but the tone behind it showed his authority. England may be one of the eldest countries in the room, but his lifespan might as well have been a fleeting glance in comparison to China's vast history, and it showed in his voice. He would not raise it, but the power flowed through his words. He would NOT be talked down to.

Arthur's voice was loud and angry, his words building and constructing an even more tense environment from everyone in the room. "You have NO reason to worry for me! My business is mine, and mine alone! So stay out of it! If I don't want to spend time with any of you gits, I don't have to! SO LEAVE ME THE BLOODY HELL ALONE! -"

"We, as your friends Arthur-san, feel as if you are throwing your life away." Kiku said, he was slowly rising, to show how true and passionate he was being about his response. "We don't want you to fade away." Japans face was concerned, and hurt was etched into his expression due to Arthur's harsh words. "You know it is possible! You may not physically disappear, but you as a person will! Don't do this to yourself! We are here for you Arthur-san-"

"Don't call me that."

The words caught Kiku off guard, and he managed to give a choked out, "What?" before the feeling of ice began to pour through his veins.

"Don't call me Arthur."

"But-but why?"

His words were cold, vile, and they made Japan sick. They made everyone sick. Names were special; the human names were used between family and any friends that didn't consist of human company. The fact that Arthur was denying Kiku the right to call him his name was as if he was disowning him as not only a friend, but as a person as well. Basically, it meant Arthur had told him he was dead to him.

"I'm no longer your friend. I'm not 'Arthur' to any of you. None of you are welcomed to call me in such a familiar way." The room was dead silent as a feeling of dread overcame the entire world. "And you are no longer Kiku. Just as France is no longer Francis."

Then it made sense to Romano. Why France was so...dead around the man, because he literally was. England had took not only his name from France, but thrown his name back in his own face. And not only to him, but the whole world now! Was England really doing this? It had to be a joke, it had to be, but it wasn't. And Lovino knew it.

He saw tears fall from Francis' eyes, his shoulders shaking violently in a weak attempt to keep himself from sobbing. Despite their shock, Spain and Prussia were flocked around him protectively, as if Art…England's words were a physical enemy and they were going to protect France from them. Then, for some reason, he noticed that the stupid ticking had fallen silent.

America had crushed the watch between his fingers, blood gushing from his hand to (and dripping on instead of 'to'?) the table, staining it dark red. Lovino slowly edged his chair away from the American, as if to avoid the blood, but he couldn't really care less about that. He was more worried he would end being like that watch.

The American was gritting his teeth together, and Romano highly doubted it was from the pain in his hand. The blond looked like was wanted to puke, he looked...hurt- ah. Romano understood it then.

He couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for the Hamburger Bastard. It wasn't really a secret that he and England were close… well, they used to be; they had that 'special relationship' didn't they? Having been inseparable then hateful, then close only to be so far away all at once. After all those two had been through, Alfred had still cared for England, although whether or not his feelings were brotherly was unknown to him. Well, it obviously meant nothing to the Brit anymore, but Alfred looked in agony.

Romano looked down at the shards of broken glass and stainless steel, and suddenly remembered that he recognised where the American had gotten that watch. He was there when he'd received it as a gift for his birthday eight years ago, despite it being a week or two after his party. It was from England. Alfred had told the Brit it wasn't the type he liked, but he still wore the stupid thing around with pride, and he wouldn't let the Brit see how bright his smile was when he had actually set the time on it.

Romano only remembered it because Spain had helped the Englishman purchase the present, and dragged him along so he could see what he did for himself.

But now he looked at the sad, red tinted clockwork shattered gears on the floor and desk and frowned. America was dead to England. Alfred was dead to him. And the boy didn't know how to handle it. Lovino wasn't one for kind words or comforting touches, so he didn't do either of them. He just sat there and watched as the world seemed to crumble around the American and blow away with the wind of pain.

"What ze hell did ve ever do to you?!" Prussia yelled out, obviously angry with the blond. "You're being TOTALLY unawesome! I don't give a shit if you hate ze vorld or vhatever, but you can't just go und hate US as PEOPLE for no reason!"

"Yes, I can." Arthur's voice was dark, dead, and the whole room seemed to shiver with his quiet, almost whispered words. "And I will."

The Brit silently stalked away from the podium and made his way back to the table. Everyone in the room besides the few who were too shocked to stand and were frozen on their feet, only movingwhen the icy aura around the blond began to approach them, quickly jumping out of the way to avoid his touch.

He snatched his papers and briefcase from his place at the table and, before they knew it, there was a quick click of the doors, and even though he didn't slam it in his calm retreat, the noise seemed deafening in the silent room.

And then…

Chaos broke out.

And Romano could STILL hear the faint ticking of that stupid watch ringing through his head. He searched. He searched and searched and searched. England was nowhere to be found.

Alfred gave a thick, tight sigh of frustration and ran a hand through his wheat-like hair. The strands gave way to his fingers and softly rubbed his skin. The American had been through hell in that conference room after Arthur had left. He was yelled at, blamed, given pity, he was even asked questions, and was finally told to leave before Arthur decided to run out of the country.

As the host of the meeting, and a certified hero, he really had no choice but to try and find the Englishman, despite wanting nothing more than to avoid him at all costs. He wasn't running away from the problem, Arthur just needed some space right now...yeah...and he would get plenty of it. He had just isolated himself from the entire world.

Alfred stopped in mid-walk, standing eerily still for someone of his age and maturity, but especially with his personality and background of barely being able to contain and still himself for more than a few moments at a time.

Blue eyes were hidden by his hair as he stared mutely at the ground below him. People continued to walk around beside him, always in a rush. Always in a hurry because life came and went too fast for them. Not for nations. Never for them. They had no need to rush, they lived for decades and wouldn't seem to age a day. Life went on. And on and on and on...and it continued. As long as the humans continued to rush and live their short lives, Alfred's kind could continue to live a still one. One that was so slow, only death seemed to speed it up.

No one cared about the man standing in the middle of a wide New York sidewalk; they wouldn't notice him even if he had spoken directly to him. They had no time for him; their own country. Because they didn't know. They didn't and couldn't know who he was. They felt a strange connection to him, yes, one that made them gather 'round and even fight over him at times, but now, with the warning of a storm so strong it could ground the airlines, they had no time to care or squabble. And he was glad for it.

He really didn't want to be fussed over by a nice citizen at a time like this. He couldn't be bothered by it, not that the attention was very bothersome. In fact, he loved it. He adored for and loved his people more than he did anyone else; they were a part of him, they WERE him, and he owed them so much. They were his children, and he would protect them through all he could,with all he had. He would die trying for them. And it takes a lot to kill a nation.

Sadly, he had a mission, and with the way his emotions were running amuck inside of him, helping spew the storm on more, he realised being distracted was not an option this time. He needed to find the Brit. Before he ended up flooding the entire city with his personal rain cloud.

America began to walk again. Thunder was crashing rumbling like crazy through the sky, birds cawing in panic and flying to safety whilst the people around him charged and shoved, pushing and bumping into others to try and break free of the crowd and make it to a dry, safe haven before the storm REALLY hit. He felt a buzz in his pocket and before he could reject the call, a familiar ring came out of it.

Although a bit annoyed at the rotten timing, he was slightly surprised by the caller. He was a dear friend, and one he would go and visit when he wanted a few drinks on the house.

He knew where he was headed.

Black Cavens Bar.

And he was sure he was going to find a drunken nation there, for sure. So, with a quick step and new determination, he slid through the people, effortlessly making his way through the crowd and managing to not injure anyone with his tremendous strength.

He knew he was getting close. He could feel that icy hate fill the air. He pulled the collar of his jacket up higher and tucked his head down, shoving his hands in his pockets as he made his journey to the bar. The rain was almost as loud as his heart beat as he thought of what he and Arthur still had to do this night, despite his new found hatred. Alfred bit his lip, hoping he wouldn't be too late.

After a few hours of trudging through the streets blindly in the dark and rain, he was there. The smell of booze and warm, greasy foods invaded his nostrils as he stood before the door. The orange tinted windows streaked with water that had slipped underneath the black and gold tarp that hovered above the pub. The black bricks cold and wet, seeming to absorb the muffled music and voices from inside.

He could faintly see Ted at the bar, as he was trying to pry away bottles of wine and other alcoholic drinks from his former caretaker's arms as the blond cradled them to himself, protectively curling over them as if they were a child, or the only thing keeping him together.

Alfred heaved an exasperated sigh and wrapped his fingers around the golden door handle, gripping it loosely as he pulled it open and stepped inside.

The ring of the bell made the curly haired man pop up, a look of relief poured over the man, immediately evident as soon as he laid his eyes over the secret nation who was slowly laying his coat on an abandoned booth.

"WHERE have'ya BEEN? I called you two HOURS AGO!" Ted wasn't mad. In fact, he was smiling, his freckles crinkling upwards with his cheeks. His green eyes sparkled when he saw the blond trying in vain to ring out his soaking wet shirt.

"Yeah, well, the streets are flooded."

"I could tell." Ted let out a chuckle and quickly began to try and pull another bottle out of Arthur's mouth as he took a huge swig from the green glass. "Let go-" he sighed, "he's been like this every since he got here."

"And when was that?" Alfred began to trudge over to the struggling men fighting over the bottle of booze and stood before them, watching with a sad expression. Arthur was drunk. Again, and he was in such bad shape he couldn't even fight off a human. That was dangerous. It's not like he wanted the human to get hurt - in fact, he would probably knock the Brit out with a car if he did - but his weak, slow movements didn't bode well.

Maybe Kiku and Yao were right. He WAS fading away. And if a nation couldn't even protect themselves, who knows what could befall them and their people?

Alfred frowned and quickly yanked the bottle from both of them, causing the two to stumble and blink up at him in mild confusion and shock. Arthur began to trip over himself as he recognised the face in front of him. His expression quickly turned into hatred and fury, and also something else, but Alfred wasn't sure what. He grabbed the man and pulled him into his arms as he sat on a stool, plucking the bottles easily from the blond's trembling hands.

Ted quickly recovered though, standing up straight - almost as tall as the nation before him - and dusting himself off. He smiled warmly at the American, his southern accent thick as he spoke.

"About four or five hours ago, I'm not sure, but he's drinkin' us outta our bar! He was pickin' fights and yellin' 'bout some o' the people you be tellin' me about all the time when you comin' fer a drink'er two." Arthur had stopped his weak struggling and decided to weakly lean back, too drunk and tired to do much more than rest. Alfred's eyes flicked up and watched the curly red head before him, his tall lanky form taking the bottles back from the American and placing them back in their original places on the shelves.

"Who exactly?" America was curious. Ted only knew his friends human names, so the only way he would be able to tell if England was talking about them was if he used the very names he banned himself from using earlier.

"Oh, he was talkin' about Francis 'n Matthew, even Kiku 'n some of the others like Ivan or whatever. But once he was tellin' weird assed stories 'n callin' 'em country name's like Russia and Canada 'n shit like that, I decided he 'ad enough. He wanted more though and kept sneakin' 'em from me."

"Did he talk about me?"

"Oh, he talked about YOU plenty. Wouldn't shut up about cha, that's how I know I shoulda called you." Of course. England always talked about him when he was drunk. It was always sorrowful and bitter, spewing hateful words. "He was callin' you America 'n sayin' that you never shoulda left 'im in the Revolutionary war 'n shit. I began to think he was crazy, ya know? Even drunk people don' talk like that."

America couldn't help but feel a rush of relief when he heard that. England could have messed up the order of things. Most people wouldn't believe him, but the secret HAD gotten out before and they had been threatened by terrorists. They had been wiped out instantly though. No one threatened the life of EVERY person in a nation like that and got away with it.

No one.

But that didn't change the fact that it was still INSANELY dangerous and risky if anyone over-heard the true nature of the personifications of nations. That's why they had human names in public to begin with. Was England REALLY that stupid? There's was no way the Brit could just go around and call them by their titles. It would put not only him and HIS people in jeopardy, but every other being in the entire WORLD for god's sake!

As the hero, America couldn't allow this. He had to do his job as the super power of the earth. He had to lead and protect. That was one of the main reasons he was yelled at so vehemently after Arthur had left the building. If anything was wrong, it was always somehow his fault. It didn't matter how much good he did, or how many people he helped - there was always someone who wasn't pleased, who didn't get what they wanted out of life and figured he was the cause of all their misfortune. It pained him. And angered him. He wasn't the hero they wanted him to be. In fact, he might as well not be a hero at all if all they did was treat him like a villain.

But he couldn't give up, he wouldn't. It was imperative he kept his facade of childish contentment and joy; if not, they may think they were actually getting the upper hand, and that was something he could NOT let slide.

America was in charge of the world and he wanted them all to be his friends too, but he wouldn't let them run all over them. No siree.

Alfred gave him a reassuring but tight smile. "Ah, he's like that, ya know? Don't worry about it, he's not crazy, just...a little...CONFUSED when drunk. He's goin' through a tough time, depression or some other shit like that."

"Hey Al," Ted's voice fell quiet and he looked a little nervous to ask, but did it anyway. "I know ya seem to be really fond of 'im an' all, the way ya talk abou' 'im when you're a little buzzed..." America stared at him, wondering where this was going. "But he...he said you where 'is little brother. That true?"

Alfred jerked a bit at the question, and looked a little panicked. He had a slight crush on the Brit during the second World War, but he thought he had out grown it. But seeing as how Ted would always tell him about the things he would say about Arthur when he was drunk...

He didn't know how to respond. Ted was quick to put his arms up in defence, shaking his head faster than he should have. The boy was going to get whip lash. "I don't care if you're brothers, it ain't no o' MY business, 'ts jus'...I don' want ya to get 'urt, ya see, cuz, uh...I don't know...Yer my friend an' all, but...I jus' FEEL like I should protect ya from it, thats all-god, I don' know, I sound all weird'n gay now, haha."

Ted gave a nervous laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. Alfred was still silent. He looked torn, gripping the Brit to him tighter as he looked down at the ground, searching for the answers. "He...used to be...I left."

"Why?"

"...I don't know."

As Alfred trudged through the rain, his shoes and clothes made wet squashing and squishing sounds. Ted had offered him his umbrella, but he declined. He didn't want to let the young man walk around in this weather without an umbrella; it wasn't healthy, and he didn't want the boy to get sick.

Alfred had taken the Brit and slipped the wet bomber jacket onto his shoulders. The idiot only had a white dress shirt on to cover his upper body with. He would catch a cold if Alfred let him out like that. He placed the Englishman on his shoulders and let the bar.

By now, the man had passed out. He would wake up and begin to sob uncontrollably, one time to the point where he threw up all over the American's back and then just cried harder, the depression and alcohol wrecking his nerves. Alfred had set them both down and cradled the man on the abandoned street, the rain and flood water rushing around them, hiding the tears… but they were still there.

Eventually, they made it to his hotel room. Alfred held England in his arms with one hand, opening the door with the other. He kicked the door shut as he re-adjusted the Brit in his arms. The damp man let out a sleepy groan and a sniffle, gripping the wet, dark blue material of America's shirt that clung to his body like a second skin. Alfred pet the man's wet bedraggled hair and continued his way to the twin sized bed.

Gently, slowly, he lowered the male onto the bed. He quietly went into the bathroom and retrieved a soft, white towel and began to mop at the nation's hair and face. Trying to calm his beating heart as he peeled the wet clothes from the others body, America began to pat him dry as quickly and softly as he could, being careful to not jostle the man from his drunken slumber.

Only once the man was stripped down to his Union Jack boxers did Alfred leave him alone. He wanted to continue - to see the man in the nude before him - but he resisted the temptation. Instead, he decided to take off his own clothes and made his way over to the pearly white shower and began to wash rain water and smell of booze from himself. He stood in the shower, his forearm against the wall and his head resting upon it. The water poured down his body and face as he stared down at the swirling water around his feet. Then taking a deep, strained breathe, he began to try and figure out what he should do next.

England had single handledly sent the whole world into a minor panic and anger, and it didn't look good. Not only that, but he and America were supposed to sleep together this night. Alfred knew, with a deep twisting in the pit of his stomach, that he wouldn't be sleeping with the man for some time to come. And then some. He just couldn't do it. He felt something for England, maybe even loved him, but he didn't like this man he had become. They may have had the same body, but they were very different.

Arthur was rude, quick to anger and annoy, but also very caring and loving in his own way. England was spiteful, cold and full of hate. Arthur was quick to judge, but extremely loyal. England was untrustworthy and didn't believe in helping others. Arthur was a bad cook, but loved to try anyway. England didn't cook and never ate. Arthur always got sleep and talked to his fairy friends. England didn't get a wink of rest and didn't speak with the fae. Arthur cared for America. England didn't. There were different, yet the same, two halves of one whole, and it scared him.

America didn't want England, he wanted the man who had first loved and cared for him. The man who had taken him home and told him stories, held him during thunder storms, and changed his wet sheets when he had an accident. Not the man he had in his bed now. He didn't know this man, and he didn't like him. He wanted him gone. And he was going to make sure it happened.

Alfred dried his own body off, slipped on his own pair of boxers and crawled into the bed as well. The smaller body jumped in his sleep at the cold skin of the bed's new occupant, but he was quickly warmed up again, taking its normal, hot temperature. He delicately rubbed Arthur's body, warming the sleeping man in his dreams and soothing his drunken worries.

He had been in the shower for so long, the water had been frozen by the time he'd got out, but as the smaller form cuddled up to him, he couldn't help but grow hot again. Soon he was wishing for that cold shower again. But the more he thought about Arthur fading away and becoming the mean man he had recently started to corrupt into, the less aroused Alfred felt; in fact, he felt physically sick.

America gritted his teeth and pulled the man closer to him so he wouldn't fall off the bed, careful not to crush the weakened body beneath him. He had to fix this… he didn't know how, but he would. He would make sure of it. He was the hero dammit, he couldn't let the person he cared for fade away, he wouldn't have it! No...he would fix this...he had to.

It was the only thing he could think of before he FINALLY let himself drift off into a dreamless slumber.

((Phew, holy crap guys, this took a while to write, and it is really slow right now but it'll pick up, I promise. I was stuck on the meeting part where Iggy says he can and will for a while but eventually, I got it done. I hope you like it, guys. I really do. Next chapter has Al's first day of Iggy in his care. It will take a while to get up, but I have all break for it, so Merry Christmas everybody!))


	3. Chapter 2

It was a strange place. The wind was blowing but Arthur couldn't feel it. He could SEE the branches and leaves brushing against each other, but no rustling was heard; his clothes were flapping gently, but they remained silent. Even the sound of his breathing was non-existent.

His eyes travelled above him. He was standing in a luxurious gazebo, beautiful and stunning, watching with fascination as the sun rose surfaced from the east and began to rise quickly through the starry sky, the moon from the west. They met for a brief moment at the top of the tiny world Arthur had encased himself within, and he watched as they too deserted each other; setting quietly as they traded positions.

England stared in wonder at the strange sight. Beautiful roses began to slither and grow around him, coating the gazebo with its beautiful vibrant red and green colors. The petals brushed against his skin like silk and he sighed happily, looking onwards as stars fell from the heavens of his imagination.

Thunder tore through the sky, yet no rain fell. The sound was there, quiet and gentle, and he could FEEL the cool air brush over his flesh making him feel warm despite the temperature. Arthur let his eyes slide shut for a few moments, taking in the feeling of contentment and warmth that only this surreal world could give him.

How he wished he could remain here for the rest of his life; to bask in the overwhelming relief that only came in the form of merciful dreams, where even the cruellest of atrocities couldn't reach him. Then a thought occurred to him; who's to say he couldn't? Why SHOULDN'T he be allowed to enjoy himself and live a peaceful, tranquil life here after over a thousand years of pain and regret?

What was wrong with creating the perfect world and living in it? Nothing at all...right? He deserved to have a bit of selfishness, didn't he? Yes. Yes, he did. He deserved much more than he was given. But then again, everything he HAD been given was ruined. More importantly, everything he had been given grew to hate him.

Arthur recoiled from the thought, twitching slightly and pulling away from his hold on the rail of the gazebo. When he opened his eyes, before him was a small forming ocean, stretching out from the sand in the distance and reaching out past the eyes ability to see under the gray clouds that hung over his world. Once again the feeling of fulfilment flowed through his veins. He wanted nothing more than to go and explore the beach; to roam the ocean that was his and his alone.

A sweet fragrance filled the air around him, and he searched across the yard for a moment before he spotted a beautiful garden flourishing around a magnificent fountain. Fairies and pixies gathered and danced over the wonder and sang happily. To him, there were just glittering spheres of light, but he knew what there were. If he truly wanted to, he could see their true forms, but he decided it would be best to savor this moment of everlasting beauty whilst he still could. Behind him his mansion was glowing warmly, awaiting his arrival at its steps. He smiled sadly as he realized this house was much more inviting than his own home had ever been in the real world.

Arthur gazed down at the roses that had intertwined with the gazebo and gently raked a finger over it. How nice it was here, if only he could stay. Wait... why couldn't he...? He struggled to remember, feeling a wave of confusion and curiosity wheedle its way into his gut. He had reasons, right? He had to, he had a life before this one, he was sure of it. He couldn't exactly remember what, but it was cold and dark and lonely. The world around him begged for him not to remember, to stay, to remain here with them and live happily.

He wanted to, oh GOD how he wanted to. It would be so easy to just give up and let go, but he couldn't... why not?

He didn't know.

Arthur clenched his teeth and balled his fists in his hair as he tried to remember. The world seemed to shift angrily at his attempts, but still he didn't stop. There had to be SOMETHING for him besides this world, didn't there? The waves rose and crashed angrily; the fairies screeched wildly and the roses begun to wither and die at his betrayal, thorns bristling and slicing at his flesh. The mansion grew dark and collapsed, falling apart much like the garden before him. The gazebo groaned and trembled. Arthur gasped as the lines wrapped around him and tried to pull him through the floorboards and to the earth. Don't leave, it screamed, we need you!

The wind howled feverishly, whipping the trees and plants to and fro. The fountain rumbled and exploded, water erupting from the shattered remains and thudding onto the ground loudly. England was in shock. His beautiful world was begging, BEGGING for him to stay, to remain happy instead of pushing him away, he had a place where he belonged where he was loved and wanted. NEEDED.

He considered saying yes, opening his mouth and telling the world that he WOULD remain there, happy and content, but there was that nagging feeling, one he couldn't ignore, that his past life was reaching out to him. He wanted to recoil. He knew that place was a hateful, evil place, but he still stared above his world and stared up at the dark clouds of his past life. He couldn't go back there... that place didn't want him, but he couldn't let go. Something was pulling at him, making his world scream and cry for him to stay, to say yes and remain there for all of timeless eternity.

Above him, the dark clouds were being forced apart, and a giant hand reached down for him. Arthur gaped as he stared through the skylight as the fingers closed over the only shelter he had, the palm casting a dark shadow as it ripped off the roof of the gazebo with ease. He wanted to shrink down, to vanish and hide further within the thorny clutches of the roses, but the hand had wrapped itself around his body, not even hesitating as its fingers curled around the thorns and began to pull him to the sky, uprooting the roses and ripping them apart as he ascended.

Arthur screamed and struggled in vain as he was pulled up to the black clouds overhead. He didn't want to go back there; it was dark and lonely, and it was painful. He felt tears stream down his face as he watched his world grow smaller and smaller, wailing for him to come back. The fingers were strangely warm from being from a place so cold, but that didn't mean he wanted to be in their embrace.

The Nirvana he had been a part of was screaming up to him as his vision became obscured with the smoggy clouds. Come back, we'll wait for you, it sobbed. We'll always be here Arthur, we'll always be the place that you'll truly belong! Nobody loves you up there, remember that! NOBODY!

Arthur could feel the tears stream down his face and drip onto the finger of the giant hand that encased him within its grasp. The tears burned away at the skin like acid, but it didn't pull away. Instead, a voice whispered to him: it's okay, I'll protect you this time, I won't let you go again.

England shuddered at the voice that surrounded him. It was so soft, so warm and sweet, sultry and seductive, yet caring and firm. His struggles seemed to fade a bit, but the faint whispers of his dissolving land blew in his ears. Nobody will ever love you, Arthur, we're all you have, everyone is out to hurt you; remember Francis? Nobody loves you... nobody.

The wetness remained on Arthur's cheeks, even after Alfred tried in vain to wipe them away. The Englishman let out a weak sob. It was so small and broken that it made Alfred grit his teeth. What in the world could have made Arthur like this?

The Brit trembled weakly under him palm. He was so thin and worn, he must not have eaten in days... Alfred couldn't go through with it. He had been given a direct order - by not only HIS boss, but England's as well - to have sex with the island nation beside him. But Arthur was so frail at the moment, surely he couldn't bend him over and fuck him on the bed like he normally would be forced to do, not this time.

Arthur gave a strange whimpering sound as he pushed at Alfred's chest in his half conscious state. He wanted that warmth to disappear, it wasn't for him; it would never be for him. The American held fast, clutching the squirming body to his chest. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'll protect you this time, I won't let you go again..." He slid his fingers lightly through the feathery hair and pressed Arthur's face into his chest gently. "I swear."

He knew this depressive state had to have something to do with him - for pushing him away and revolting, for not keeping as close a tie as he should of all of the years after - but he couldn't help that now. Arthur was here in his arms, fighting a darkness only he could see and Alfred was going to protect him this time. He was going to save him, not because he was a hero, but because he wanted to protect the only person in the world who had ever truly loved him for him besides his own brother.

England's eyes fully opened and he got a good eye full of a bare American chest. He frowned deeply, a grimace setting on his features as he realized that Alfred was cuddling him to his chest like a lover.

"Let go."

"What?" Alfred looked down at the brooding face beneath him. "Aren't you cold?"

"No, you git," he growled, "In fact, your stupid body heat is making me sweat, now let go."

America released him from his hold and shuffled back a bit, giving him the space he wanted. He made a mental note to take things slowly. Arthur's recovery wasn't going to be an easy road, he was very... easily angered and it was only getting worse as the days passed.

Arthur seemed to have noticed that their only source of clothing was a pair of boxers on both of them. "I would have assumed that you and I actually fulfilled our assignment last night, but seeing as how we both have our undergarments on and you being... well, YOU, we haven't."

Alfred shook his head. "You know I don't like sleeping with drunks. I don't need to feel like I'm taking advantage of someone."

"But you wouldn't be." Arthur tossed in casually. "It was what we were supposed to do. You wouldn't have taken advantage of anyone."

"Yes, I would have. I could have done whatever I wanted to a man who doesn't know how to say no to anything sexual while intoxicated." Arthur scoffed and rolled his eye's, flopping down onto the pillow in exasperation.

"But you wouldn't." He pressed.

"I didn't." Alfred stared at the man across from him. Bags were noticeable, even though he had just awoken from a long night's sleep.

"So when are we going to do this?" Arthur asked. "I'm half ready to just fuck myself on you just so I can leave this godforsaken country of yours." Alfred didn't look amused at Arthur's words at all. In fact, he looked annoyed.

"We're not."

Arthur blinked before turning his head to gaze over at Alfred. "What do you mean? You have a mission to do, you know Obama won't be pleased if you don't go through with it. He's already having a hard time proving himself, and the only thing he's really got going for him are these 'good relations' with other countries."

"Hah, tell that to North Korea, the bastard."

"Hm," Arthur nodded at the truth of his words. North Korea WAS threatening to bomb him at the moment...

"And besides," Alfred continued, "as much as I appreciate the President trying to help me 'get some', I really don't want any from you." Arthur stared at him dumbly for a moment.

"What...?" He slowly let those words sink in. And as they did, so did the anger. "What do you mean by that?!" He yelled indignantly.

"Exactly what I said," America replied, looking him square in the eye. "I don't want to have sex with you."

"Why the bloody hell not?!" Arthur demanded. Alfred just shook his head as he looked at Arthur.

"I just don't find sick people sexually attractive."

"I'm not sick!"

"You call being depressed and on the verge of suicide NOT SICK?!" America asked. "England, you've been pushin' others away, you've been pushin' ME AWAY! You've disowned every country out there and've practically shunned every friend you've ever had!"

"That doesn't mean I'm depressive, you TWAT!"

"Then what do you call it?!"

"SPLENDID ISOLATION!"

"Ohhh, NO." America grit out. "You are NOT pulling that anti-social shit out on me again! You're just using that piece of crap excuse as a reason not to be around people anymore. Well, as the hero I won't allow it!"

"And what exactly are you going to do about it, Alfred?" England challenged. "Last time I checked, you couldn't even keep terrorists out of your own country, you fatass!"

Alfred jerked in surprise. "W-what...why would you even bring that up-WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH THIS?!"

"Nothing really, but neither does the fact that you couldn't even keep yourself together during a simple civil war." Arthur smiled smugly, feeling a sense of accomplishment at the hurt and betrayed look on the American's face. Alfred looked down, his face hidden behind his bangs as he took in a few deep, shuddering breaths.

"I'm not like him, you know. You can't push me away by hurting me like you did with Francis." Arthur jerked in surprise at Alfred's sudden ability to read deeply into others actions. The blond looked up and met Arthur's green eyes with determination. "I'll keep stickin' around. Even if you don't want me to, I'll always stay by ya and make sure you get your happily ever after." He said defiantly.

Arthur stared at him silently for a few moments, his dull eyes staring incisively at Alfred's serious exterior. "You're an idiot." Arthur laughed darkly, "Do you SERIOUSLY believe in such a thing as happy endings? You're more stupid than I thought." Alfred bolted off of the bed and stood over the nation, staring him down with dissipointed eyes. Arthur just gazed lazily back up at him.

"No, what's stupid is that YOU'VE given up! It's not stupid to try and work for a better future! That's all anyone can really do! If you give up, what the hell is the point?! I thought you were better then this, just giving UP?! That's not the England I know."

"Well maybe I'm TIRED of being England!" Alfred froze. So there it was. His confirmation. Alfred's blood ran cold inside of his veins as he listened to Arthur's words. "I'm TIRED of trying! I've tried for over a thousand years! I'm DONE hoping. I'm DONE WISHING FOR A BETTER LIFE THAT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN!"

"So you just... give up? You have nothing-NOTHING worth fighting for?"

America's voice was quiet and sullen. His blue eyes staring intently at the Brit. "Nothing."

"Not even me?"

"No."

Alfred nodded. He's seen that coming, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. "So we're not worth it, not worth you living, even to spend time with us?"

England fell silent for a moment, staring at Alfred just as hard bitterness. Seconds dragged by as if they were being pulled through cement Or something similar. Then he opened his mouth. "Not even a moment of my time."

"How the hell can you say that?!" America demanded, his composure breaking like thin ice. "Are you really that SICK?! How can you NOT see that we need you here?! That we LOVE you?! All of us! Francis, Matthew, Kiku- ME!" Alfred was beginning to shake, his hands clenching into fists. "We CARE about you! If you disappear, all of us will be crushed… the whole WORLD will be crushed! Your boss is freakin' out, your QUEEN is TERRIFIED that you'll fade away! We NEED you Arthur!"

"That's not what you said in 1776. In fact, I remember you saying the exact opposite."

"Then was different, I-...I needed to leave."

"WHY?!"

"BECAUSE I COULDN'T STAND BEING NEAR YOU ANYMORE!"

Silence filled the room. Heavy, dark silence. Arthur had the expression of a loathing, abandoned old man who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to die. Alfred's mouth was hanging open slightly after his sudden angry outburst. His breathing was slightly heavy and his eyes flashed with a recognition of what he had just said.

"Arthur I-"

"You don't need me. You never did. Even when you were a child, you were already stronger then me, and stronger than the world." Arthur stared directly into Alfred's eyes as he spoke. "You don't need me and neither does the world." He broke eye contact with the struggling American before him who was looking for any way to patch the hole he had just ripped between them. England began to rise from the bed, his eyes searching the room around them. Alfred stepped back, his mind racing but drawing up nothing as he searched for a solution. "I'm leaving. Where are my clothes?"

Alfred's mind raced back to him all at once. He quickly looked to Arthur, no longer feeling lost as he spoke. "No, you're not. I got a text from your queen this morning and had a chat with her and your Prime Minister. You're to stay with me until you get out of your depression and fix all of your broken relations with other countries."

Arthur quickly turned on him, his face mere inches from the one staring down at him with great disapproval. "WHO THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! YOU CAN'T JUST GO AND DISCUSS MY RIGHTS WITH MY BOSSES!"

"Why not?" Alfred questioned staring down upon the shorter male. "You did it to me when I was younger."

"THAT WAS DIFFERENT! YOU NEEDED TO BE KEPT SAFE!"

"And the same applies to you, too." Alfred pointed out. "You can't just go out and do what you want anymore. As of this morning, America is in charge of taking care and supporting the UK's suddenly failing political standings. I've been given the permission to do whatever I want with you, as long as I get the needed results."

"What, do you want to shag me or keep me prisoner?" Arthur hissed out. "I won't stand for this, I'm the bloody United KINGDOM! AN INSOLENT WHELP LIKE YOU STANDS NO CHANCE OF KEEPING ME LOCKED UP! DO YOU HEAR ME-" Arthur fell silent at the soft look on America's face. It was one of relief, exasperation, joy, admiration and even... Arthur mentally stopped himself from finishing that thought.

"I've missed you so much." He whispered, clutching the confused Brit to his body. Arthur was befuddled. How could the boy miss him if he was right there in his arms? He saw him more than anybody else these days. Alfred buried his face into the crook of Arthur's neck as he mumbled out, "You have no idea how good it is to see you actually BELIEVE in yourself. To FIGHT for yourself instead of just rolling over and giving up." He nuzzled his face into the warm flesh of the other, breathing deeply. "I've missed you, I've missed you, I've missed you. I don't want you to disappear, Arthur, I miss this, the FIRE you have... I miss it... don't give it up," he whispered before choking out, "PLEASE." Arthur felt his chest squeezing tightly, uncomfortably as Alfred's hot breath shuddered in his ear. "You have so much to live for."

England let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and felt like he needed to sit down or he would collapse. Alfred seemed to notice the other beginning to go limp in his arms because he gently laid him on the bed as he climbed atop of him. The American straddled Arthur easily; no resistance was met. There really wasn't any to be given. Arthur knew Alfred was sexually attracted to him - many people were - but he trusted Alfred to take care of his body like a god. He WAS here on a mission, anyway. To bed Alfred and keep up good terms between their people. America seemed to have forgotten about not being turned on by sickly people, because he was looking at Arthur with the usual eyes he did (with the same eyes that he always did) when they slept together. Full of caring and determination to please him.

"And by that do you mean sex?" The question threw Alfred off for a second. His eyes flickered between their almost naked bodies, and he gave him a mischievous smirk.

"No, but that IS a bonus."

"Tch, typical." Arthur scoffed. "You still have a teenager's libido."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Alfred asked, placing his palms flat over the vast expanse of Arthur's bare chest. "It means I can keep going and going when I need to."

"Yes, but that also includes being easily aroused." Arthur frowned at the other. "I don't understand you at all. One moment you're trying to convince me to live and the next you're feeling me up." Alfred blushed gently, his sweet smile caressing his lips as he avoided the other's gaze. "Besides," Arthur added, "I thought you weren't interested in 'sick' people."

"I'm not," Alfred insisted. "You're just that good. Besides," he whispered hotly, "I never DID get to fuck you last night, and you seem to need the pick me up after all this drama."

Arthur frowned up at him, but he couldn't deny that the boy wasn't (was) a smooth talker. He WAS feeling very uptight and in need of a good shag. The last time he'd had one had been with Francis four weeks ago, and he hadn't even got to finish. He hadn't even been in the mood to pleasure himself over the long period of time before or after that incident.

"Do you honestly expect me to just roll over and take it when you went behind my back like you did?"

"Well... no, but that's half the fun." Alfred smirked as he nipped gently at the skin on Arthur's collarbone. "I wouldn't like it if you just laid there and took it. I like a bit of spice in my life, ya'know."

Arthur scoffed at that. "Oh yes," he said. "Let us never forget that night in San Diego." Alfred hummed in agreement as he licked up the other's neck and to his ear. That night had been one of the most amazing and intense one night stands either of them had ever had.

"Never." Arthur's toes curled as Alfred's fingers danced over his hardening cock. "Tell me Arthur, when was the last time you slept with me - with ANYBODY?"

Arthur didn't know; it had been a while. That one night with Francis would have been the first in over who knows how many months. Hell, it could have even been years for all he knew. But with Alfred..."Its been at least since 2010."

"2003, Arthur. It's been ten years. Ten fuckin' years..." Arthur pulled away, completely breaking the connection between the two. No... it couldn't have been that long... he had to be over exaggerating. There had to have been some other nights afterward, right? But how come he couldn't remember?

"Ten years...?" He asked quietly. He was in a daze. How could he go so long without having been with this man? It didn't seem possible. Not at all.

"Yeah, babe. It was when we went to that memorial party for the..."

"The second year anniversary of nine-eleven..." He filled in.

"Yeah..." Alfred nodded sadly, he looked away, glancing off into the distance, memories of burning buildings and jumping people plaguing his mind. Arthur wanted to just grab the boy and hold him; whisper that it will be all right, to fuck all his worries away like he did the night ten years ago.

They had been at the dinner party. Everyone was giving America their condolences and wishing him a better future, and all the boy seemed to want to do was leave, to run away. He didn't want to be there. His citizens were on edge, all crowding around him, fearing another attack and feeling the need to protect their land. His friends were giving him weak comfort, and even his own brother was fussing over him like a mother bear. Protective and alert. He just wanted to forget. But he couldn't. 'Never Forget'. That was the slogan. Well it worked. He never did forget, and it haunted his dreams and every waking moment he had.

Arthur had been able to drag him away from Matthew for a moment and pulled him into a storeroom. It had a dusty table and junk piled everywhere, but that didn't deter Arthur. He still managed to get the American to open up and let go. To let himself be dominated, to let himself forget. He felt guilty for doing it, for being allowed to forget for a moment while his people were in the other room crying and grieving, but he needed it. And so when Arthur pressed in, he let him do as he pleased, and he hadn't felt so at peace in two years. But afterwards was different. He pushed Arthur away when he was done. Guilt flooding his very being, and he asked for Arthur to leave him and join the party. They hadn't slept together since, and it was such a shame because both really enjoyed whatever the other proposed in the bedroom.

"Alfred... this time is different." Arthur whispered. He didn't know why he was comforting the other, but he was.

"Is it?" America questioned. "Because it feels the same."

"How so?"

"It just is." He didn't want to explain it, but it really was the same. Both wanting to forget and to live in a moment that existed only between them. For him depending and needing Arthur so much he felt as if his very life would end if Arthur said no. Only thing was, Arthur seemed to need this more than Alfred, and that was saying something because he thought he was going to explode if this didn't happen.

Arthur didn't seem to like the answer he was given but he held his tongue. He just laid back and allowed Alfred to distract himself with peppering kisses up and down Arthur's flat stomach. "You need to eat more," Alfred mumbled into his skin. "You're too thin."

"To what, end up looking like you?" Arthur retorted. "No thanks, I'd rather die than look like a fatass pig." It was a lie, of course. America was anything but fat. He had beautiful, toned muscles that ran all over his body, and his abs were no exception. They were perfect and developed. It made sense seeing how much time he spent in the gym trying to get rid of his non-existent fat.

Alfred growled in annoyance at this comment on his weight and nipped at the rim of his belly button in revenge. Arthur gasped and tried to jerk away from the sensation. Alfred smirked at Arthur's scowl, licking and dipping his tongue in the hole, teasing him for what was coming in a few minutes.

As much as Arthur enjoyed foreplay, it had been far too long for him to be able to go on without being touched at all. It was driving him insane. "Will you just get to it already?!"

"But I thought you weren't just going to roll over and take it?"

"I'm NOT going to roll over, I'm going to sit just like this." He stated matter of factly. "And YOU'RE going to GIVE it to me before I rip it OFF." Alfred laughed at his threat, but began to slide further down the bed to give himself and Arthur some space before he could prepare the other. He noticed how large Arthur's bulge had gotten in just a few short moments, and he couldn't help but smirk. It was too easy to tease him to hardness no matter how much Arthur denied it.

He gently palmed the other through the thin material of his Union Jack Boxers and continued to kiss and caress the other's belly and chest. He latched onto a dusty nipple and sucked as he swirled his tongue around the nub, doing the same to the tip of Arthur's dick with his hands. The island nation whimpered and trembled under the other's naturally skilled hands.

England rutted up against the other's hand, wanting more friction than the teasing, light traces of fingertips dancing over the head of his cock. He wanted Alfred to stop dawdling and just fuck him already, but still, Alfred continued to lap away at his chest. His switched to the other, and as he did his hands roamed further down his front until he was cupping Arthur's balls between his fingers. Said man let out a shocked gasp, making an embarrassing choking noise when he felt the warm fingers caress the sacs and massage them deeply as he suckled on his male breast.

"Oh, bloody hell... Alfred, please, I need you to hurry, I can't take it anymore!" He was beginning to panic. He didn't want to just cum after only having his nipples and balls played with. That would be rather pathetic. But Alfred was so amazing with his mouth... he didn't seem to register the fact that he had an oral fixation and was completely blind to it. That worked just fine for England. Because secretly, it was thrilling to see the boy shove all kinds of things into his mouth and look utterly fetching while doing it. Usually, it was obscured and disgusting when he did it with food, but when it came to Popsicle's, ice cream, and any other sweet treat, he would suck and lick it for as long as he could, drawing many eyes to himself without any actual intentions of doing so.

Alfred released the tortured nipple with a loud smacking noise and looked up to England with waiting eyes, ready to do whatever he asked for, aiming to please the Brit. "Would you... ah... give me head?" Alfred didn't even say anything, he just gave him a small, knowing smile before lowering his face and dragging his tongue from Arthur's collarbone to his boxer line. He kissed and nibbled the flesh there as he lifted England's hips and helped him shimmy out of his last bit of clothing.

Alfred let his eyes soak up the sight of the hard flesh before him. He didn't notice his mouth was watering with excitement as he eyed the erection that was slightly twitching in anticipation. Arthur let his fingers gently ghost over Alfred's cheeks as he watched Alfred's excitement build up. He looked so thrilled to be having that dick go into his mouth. Alfred's eye's flickered up to meet his, asking if it was really okay. Arthur nodded and threw his head back as Alfred's mouth literally ATTACKED his cock with the heat and eagerness of that warm, wet cavern.

America's eyes fluttered shut in bliss as he sucked and licked at the member in his mouth. It was amazing; he didn't know why he enjoyed giving head so much, but he did. The feeling of having his mouth filled and occupied… it was indescribable. He was completely content with what he was doing. He began to run and dip his tongue into the slit of Arthur's cock, looking at the flesh like it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

"Who the hell taught you to be so lewd?" Arthur choked out. Alfred glanced up through thick eyelashes and blinked innocently. He closed them again and continued to bob his head, taking the other all the way into his throat. "OoH-! GOD!" He forgot how easily Alfred could push aside his gag reflex and take him in. He was by no means small, so it was always a shock when Alfred was acting like he was doing nothing more than sucking from a straw between his lips.

England allowed his fingers to twist into the other's hair, and rocked his hips forward. Alfred didn't stop him like others would. He was more than happy to let Arthur fuck his mouth at his own pace. He let his eyes drift close and just relished in the feeling of Arthur sliding in and out of his throat. Before long, Arthur could feel himself slipping, tumbling quickly down the path of release. He groaned in frustration as he pulled out. Alfred's eyes shot open and looked at him with a confused expression.

"What'd you do that for?" He asked, genuine disappointment evident in his voice. "Didn't I do good?" Arthur jerked at the tone of voice. He sounded like a child again, asking and begging for approval from everyone, just wanting to please and do a good job.

"Of course you did," he murmured. "Too good...I almost came." Alfred let out a breath of relief and smiled happily up at him. Arthur felt the corner of his lips twitch upwards against his will, but that quickly disappeared when he felt a wet, warm muscle prod at his entrance. He jumped and tried to jerk away, but Alfred had him trapped within the strength of his hands, keeping him in place by his thighs, forcing them open so he could get a clear path to his twitching ass.

America licked and dragged his tongue at the puckered hole, teasing and torturing the other. Arthur panted and moaned, his legs twitching in Alfred's hands as he pushed past the tight ring of muscle and into the body of the island nation.

The Brit shuddered as the talented muscle coated his insides with saliva and rubbed around curiously, ignoring the taste that was attacking his taste buds. It certainly didn't taste good, it tasted like, well, ass. But he wasn't focused on that. Alfred's attention was on the groans and moans coming from the man before him, and the fingers gliding and tangling themselves in his hair once more. He decided England had had enough teasing and gave one last, tentative lick to the quivering hole, before departing and sitting back up.

Arthur peered at him through half lidded eyes and shuddered. Alfred was always one to aim to please. He'd always been into regular, vanilla sex, but he knew to step it up a notch for the Brit, and it filled England with a sense of pride that Alfred would step out of his sexual comfort zone just for him.

America cleared his throat casually before looking England in the eyes. He was asking if he was really ready for this. It was a stupid question seeing as how he was as hard as a rock and full to the brim, practically ready to beg for release. But Alfred was always careful. Not only with him, but with anyone he'd ever slept with. He had this very fitting fear that he would hurt or damage someone during the throes of lovemaking. It was rational seeing as how he could lift an airplane with no effort at all if he wanted.

"I'm fine Alfred, just stretch me and get it over with."

"You sound like you're not thrilled about this." America pointed out dully.

"I'm not, but I am feeling rather pleased at the moment so don't ruin it with your idiocy."

"Gee thanks," Alfred muttered, obviously put down by Arthur's disposition. "I'll make sure to make it quick for you as well, your royal high-and-mightyness."

"Good." Arthur spat out. "And make sure you make it neat, not that sloppy shit you usually try to pull off."

"What?!"

"You heard me," Arthur peeked out from under one eye as Alfred stared down at him with disbelief. "You're sloppy." It was a lie, he was actually quite thorough for being so young, but Alfred didn't need to know that. He could use some humility and humbleness in his life, and Arthur was willing to teach him those things.

"Whatever, you're just jealous that I don't need to take Viagra to get it up like you do." Two could play at this game.

"Alfred, you know FULL well that I do not use any type of drugs for sex-" he was cut off as Alfred shoved a lubed finger in his ass. He must have done it while they were talking because he sure as hell didn't remember him being able to do it before then.

"What, can't you keep talking, or is it to hard to expel hot air when I'm fingering you?" Arthur glared in a warning for Alfred to shut up and he did, but the shit eating smile didn't fade from his lips. The Brit leaned back down onto the mattress and got as comfortable as he could while Alfred massaged his rectum, his fingers moving in a slow, efficient, and practiced way.

The warmth squeezing his digit was a major turn on and Alfred couldn't help but bite his lip in excitement. He had missed this body, this heat, this MAN. He hated what he had become. He wanted to just take Arthur and FUCK the depression out of him. They could try it, it seemed to pull the man out of his own world and back into their shared reality. He knew it wasn't plausible, or a very idealistic technique, but he was willing to do whatever it took to help Arthur.

Said man was in his own little world. He was enjoying the fingers slipping in and out of him smoothly, gently. At first it was awkward and uncomfortable - it always was - but soon they had fallen into a comfortable rhythm as he was stretched. When another finger joined the first he just sighed, relaxing contently into the twisted comforter. It was a bit damp, and was lumping in places under his bare back, but he was sinking into a calm state of mind. One he didn't want to be jarred from.

America took the opportunity to observe and look over Arthur, and to get in as much of his sight as he could before this ordeal would end. His pale skin glistened thanks to a thin coat of sweat that have been brought about by the blow job he had received earlier, and his pink lips were parted slightly to pant and moan to himself in a voice so quiet Alfred almost thought it was the whisper of the room's heater. He added another digit, making sure to spread them apart to make Arthur loose enough for him to enter without causing any pain to the Brit.

Arthur's hair was tousled and messy from having a restless sleep and drying while he was rubbing his face into a pillow. Alfred thought it was cute. He smiled to himself and forced himself to look away from the beautiful man before him to locate the bottle of lube he had brought with him. They had both known that they were going to sleep together this trip so he had taken the responsibility to buy the necessities, and he was glad he had because Arthur sure as hell didn't have any type of lubrication with him.

He slid his fingers out of the heat and almost whined, missing the feeling of the tight heat enclosing around his skin. He knew what was coming was going to feel more pleasurable than having just his fingers encased inside of the other, and it made his spine tingle with excitement. Arthur wiggled his hips a bit, silently ordering him to hurry and lather up, his emerald eyes glaring at him with frustrated sexual need.

Alfred indulged in his needs; after all, that was what he was here for - to care for Arthur's needs. Slowly, he began to tug at the elastic band around his boxers to pull them down. Arthur was watching closely. It had been ten years since he seen what the other looked like down there, and he was determined to make up for lost time.

When the fabric finally slid down his hips and off his cock Arthur's eyes widened. He forgot how BIG the boy was. He wasn't as large as Russia or Germany, but he was certainly well endowed. Alfred was blushing a bit. It was embarrassing to have someone just... STARE at his dick like England was. Arthur's mouth was slightly agape and his eyes were greedily soaking up the view. He began to lower himself back onto the bed and hide behind Arthur's legs but England grabbed his wrist.

"You've grown so big..." he whispered, his voice cracked a bit, sounding sad and hollow. "I had forgotten..."

America nodded. "Well... at least my mind did, my body's still the same though." Arthur shook his head quickly, as if trying to break out of the depressive trance he was falling back into.

"No, your mind is the thing that stayed the same. You're still an idiotic child at heart. Your BODY though..." his voice trailed off as he stared. "It's so much bigger than the small child I found hiding in the grass of that field."

Alfred avoided his gaze. It wasn't on his own face, it was quite pointedly on his lower regions. He was thoroughly uncomfortable now. "Well... yeah, I mean, doesn't everybody grow?"

"No... well... yes I suppose so, but some people remain the same forever."

"What?" America didn't understand and Arthur didn't explain. Alfred decided not to pry and picked up the discarded bottle of lube and spurted more than enough on his hand and began to stroke himself, making sure to coat it evenly over his member. He lined himself up and looked up at Arthur. This was it.

"Are you ready?" He asked quietly.

"... Yes." Arthur took a deep breath and tried to relax as Alfred made contact with his hole. "You know your boundaries," Arthur reminded. "Don't cross them." Alfred froze for a second before lowering his head and stated,

"Yeah, no kisses and no whispering any sweet nothings in your ears."

"And?" Arthur pressed.

"And no asking you to change those boundaries."

Arthur nodded, pleased. "Good." It was perfectly rehearsed and performed. Alfred would get to do whatever he pleased with a willing body, as long as he kept it completely about sex. No attachments.

America hated that. Arthur would just give himself over wholly and completely, yet he wouldn't hand over HIM. His HEART. It was locked up and hidden like a princess, guarded and protected by a harsh dragon, and he wanted to be the hero; the knight in shining armor to go and save him. But you can't save someone who is unwilling to be saved, right?

No, they could, he just had to try was all. And this was the first step. He was going to save England - ARTHUR. He was HIS princess and he'd be damned if he just let him sit in that awful tower and rot.

Alfred pressed in finally, the head going in smoothly. He paused and let Arthur adjust for a moment. The Brit had let out a small pained groan. The beginning was usually painful; the slight sting of having such a big object inserted in the most private place in his body. It didn't FEEL private anymore - so many people have fucked him in his lifetime - but the concept still stood.

He shuddered. It was so rare to sleep with someone who was as considerate with him as Alfred was. The boy was so kind and thoughtful. Pausing when Arthur needed it, taking it slow and waiting for him to feel free of pain unlike others. Most would just slide in and start pounding away, but not the American. No, he would rub England's thighs affectionately, comforting him through the slight pain, encouraging the other, just... BEING there - actually BEING there and treating him like a PERSON when they fucked, not just a body with detached emotions. It made him want to clutch onto the other and moan out his name like a wanton slut, but he wouldn't do that. He would end up getting to attached, and being tied to someone who was bound to leave him was NOT an option.

America began to slowly slide in, pushing in only a few centimeters at a time. Soon, he was all the way in, tucked deeply in the heat of the older nation. He let out a choked panting noise, it was quiet and low but Arthur seemed to hear it. "I forgot how fucking HUGE you were, CHRIST!" He gasped. "I didn't think it was ever going to end..."

America chuckled. "You know you're just admitting I've got a fuckin' AWESOME dick, right?"

"You sound like Prussia," England scowled. "Shut up." As revenge, he clenched down as hard as he could and it sent Alfred reeling. How he could still be so fucking TIGHT after stretching was beyond the cowboy, but he didn't care. It felt too good.

"I forgot how much of a TIGHTASS you were," Alfred teased lightly, shifting his hips and picking up a slow, shallow rhythm. Arthur rolled his eyes and settled back into a sense of accommodating pleasure. It just felt so nice to have actual intercourse with someone who WASN'T breaking his rules. That meaning Francis. He was the only one who would try and break his rules and others didn't seem to be interested in having sex with him anymore, not with him being... sick. He was relieved that Alfred was the kind of person he was. He knew Alfred WANTED to break the rules, and probably would have, but he also wanted to be the hero and for Arthur's sake, played the part and kept a safe distance away, but still stayed close enough to let both of them enjoy the experience. Francis wasn't like that. He wanted to be in places he shouldn't be, but Arthur had taken care of that effectively.

Its better to hurt others than to be the one hurt. He believed that wholeheartedly. He had learned that lesson as a child and kept it true and dear to himself to this very day. Alfred, however, believed in the opposite. To help and protect others from harm instead of dealing it out, even if he was the one getting hurt in the process - just like now. Arthur could tell he was hurting him, but the boy stayed true to his job, and his mission to bring happiness to England's life. It was admirable, but stupid. Arthur was just going to pull him close, very close, than he was going to break him, making sure that even the hero understood happy endings weren't real. He was determined to prove this, and if it got the American to stay away from him, it would just be another bonus. He didn't need anybody, especially the one who was thrusting in and out of him, searching for his prostate to bring him pleasure.

Alfred was unaware of Arthur's cruel plot, hoping to just be everything Arthur needed at the moment and more. He was actually quite surprised that the Englishman was being so compliant. He didn't understand why the Brit gave up his fight so easily earlier, but that was okay. That was the past; he was going to prove to him that he was the hero, that he was all Arthur would ever want and desire, and if that didn't work, if he STILL didn't accept his feelings, that would be fine. He wasn't going to get his hopes up, the chances of that happening were remote at. Hell, the chances probably didn't even exist. But he would try, because that's what heroes did.

Arthur arched his back when shocking spikes of pleasure rolled up and down his spine. Ho, it was so good. "Ah, t-there," he moaned, "hit there again-oohhhh~" He feverishly rolled his hips back to meet Alfred's determined thrusts with gusto.

"Oh, geez," America choked out. The Brit was squeezing him so tight, so PERFECTLY, he couldn't help but moan out his name. "England, England, England... shit!" He leaned forward and latched himself gently onto the others neck, biting, licking and kissing softly, panting into the damp flesh with every thrust.

Arthur was trembling in need. Alfred was touching all the right places inside of him and he'd be damned if the boy didn't have a homing beacon for his prostate. He wasn't complaining, but that boy never missed. Each movement that the American made was precise and careful, making sure to do it JUST RIGHT. And England had to admit, it was bloody spectacular.

America pulled back a bit to stare at Arthur, and to get a good look of his flushed, pleasured face. Arthur wasn't comfortable with that. He squirmed and looked around awkwardly, trying to avoid the mesmerizing gaze that was focused on him. Alfred frowned a bit; he didn't like that Arthur was too embarrassed to look at him. "What are you ashamed about? You're breathtaking," he said softly, caressing the other's face with his fingertips, moving his face so it was forced to meet his look of utter adoration and affection.

Arthur hated it. He wanted to ruin that perfect smile, those shining blue eyes. He wanted the American to just leave; to fuck him like an animal, no feelings, then go away. He wanted nothing more, and almost anything less, but he needed orgasm more than he needed to breathe.

And although he hated it with all of his rational being, his broken heart fluttered faintly. Its harsh beating from the sex became an all new pace for a second until he got it under control. He looked at the American defiantly, his face not pleased with the sweet words being poured out to him. "You're breaking the rules, Alfred." He hissed in warning, his voice dark and seething. "Don't look at me so intently, and stop whispering such foolish things to me. We are only supposed to fuck - nothing more - so get your act together. I'm not interested in this little PLAY of yours."

Alfred grew rigid for a moment. An act? A PLAY? He clenched his teeth together in anger. If Arthur was going to be like that, fine. He could play by his rules, but it wouldn't be fun for him. He could be rough, he could be careless.

... No, he couldn't. But he could act like that. So with a scornful expression to mask his hurt he snarled at the other, Arthur's emerald eyes going wide at the tone of his voice. "Fine, then shut the fuck up and turn over." Arthur tried to do so but apparently it wasn't fast enough for the American because he was roughly flipped onto his stomach and his ass pulled into the air.

Arthur's face was pressed into the mattress, and for a moment brief fear washed over him. The American was mad. He could feel the bone crushing grip on his side, and if the boy squeezed any harder his hips would surely shatter. Alfred took a deep breath, and with his final moment of resignation, he gave an inward thrust, ensuring it plunged into Arthur at full length.

Waves of painful release began for England, starting to wash over him from where the cowboy was hitting his prostate over and over again. The nerve endings across his whole body were now on fire, and Arthur could no longer control his own orgasm which was fierce and unbidden.

The American was now thrusting into him harder and faster than before, making Arthur's shaking arms buckle, forcing his face to once again meet with the cushioning pillows. His legs were becoming unsteady, and yet the American STILL had not cum. It soon became relentless and after sometime, painful. He wanted the American to stop but he had promised to be compliant.

Suddenly, Alfred cried out hoarsely, and England felt his powerful release shoot inside of him. He made to move away from the man, but Alfred held onto him and thrusted slow and hard into him twice more before England felt the last pulsing of America's orgasm.

America pulled himself out slowly, but then moved Arthur into a kneeling position before him. His hands held Arthur's shoulders . Both men were slick with sweat and continued to breathe hard from the aftermath of their sex session. England's arms and legs were trembling and he could feel Alfred's hands shake on his shoulders as well.

Arthur started to calm down now, the thick fog in his mind beginning to dissipate. What did not lift was his shame. He had been screwed thoroughly by his former charge and yet - worse still - he revelled in it. He hated this part of their sex the most. The memories, Alfred being his sweet brother, only to leave him alone and broken. And here he was, letting the one person he thought he could count on, the one who hurt him deepest, FUCK him raw into a hotel mattress.

There he was, kneeling in front of America, allowing the man to hold him in place like this. His self-loathing resurfaced and he felt his rage bubble. He wanted this man gone from this hotel room, but he knew he was powerless again. So he did what he always did when he felt small and pathetic. He lashed out.

"Well, America, what a shame there was nobody here to see how you screwed scrawny little England into the bed doggy-style like the brute you are. This must surely be the zenith of your achievement, is it not?"

Arthur heard the man draw in a breath sharply. America's hand darted from his shoulder and grasped England's mouth and chin in a painful cinch, and twisted his head towards him. England knew the man was furious. Perhaps his eyes would be as hurt as they were all those years before when England burned down his capital. Arthur's stomach lurched and he refused to look into the man's eyes by screwing his own shut.

The American's whisper became a hiss in his ear. "You have a filthy fuckin' mouth, ya' know that? What kind of gentleman ARE you? You drive me to this, offering yourself to me on a fucking PLATE, and NOW you want to degrade us both? I accepted your offer - God knows, I'm only a guy with a guy's needs and desires - and now you want to make it WORSE than that?! Do you want me just start calling you a bitch when I fuck you and be over with it? Would you enjoy that? Would it help you hate me more than you already do? Do you need this hatred so much, Arthur?" Alfred's mouth was still pressed to his ear. His angry breath became even, and he moved his away from Arthur.

He released his grip of England's mouth suddenly and gripped both of his shoulders tightly, uncomfortably. Then one hand raked through Arthur's hair before it curled into a fist. England wasn't sure if he was going to yank his hair, but he didn't. He also didn't release his hold of the strands as the other hand snaked around Arthur's shoulder and pulled him back into Alfred's chest firmly. His mouth moved to his ear again and he listened to the American's breathing, not sure what would happen next.

Unexpectedly, the mouth kissed his neck lightly and nuzzled the skin, smelling him. Without a doubt, England knew Alfred was taking in his scent, and it made Arthur's face burn. Alfred buried his face into the other's hair, and his face travelled over Arthur's head to the other side of his face where he bit gently into England's neck, causing him to gasp. None of this was expected and he started to feel panic rising in his chest. The American settled his mouth over his ear once more.

"You know, if I can't sleep with my lover, I usually like to sleep or walk around with the scent of them, so I don't bathe until the next morning if I don't need to. But today, I think I'm going to scrub myself so thoroughly that my skin'll turn pink all over," he hissed. Alfred then sighed.

Slowly again, he moved his head to whisper into Arthur's other ear. "You choose to treat me like an animal, England, but you're more of an animal than I am," his voice was still a whisper, but it was hoarse. "You want me. You hate me, but you want me. I know it." Arthur was devastated. A sharp tongue would never shield himself from this man's surprisingly keen people-reading skills. "I could fuck you right now if I wanted to, and you'd let me." Alfred let out a heavy sigh. "But Arthur, I won't do this your way again."

"You got your rocks off Alfred - don't you dare pretend you didn't enjoy it," Arthur croaked.

"It was functional," the boy breathed. "It was a release but that's all it was. It was soulless." Arthur felt his neck and face flush but he still would not look at the man.

"If degradation is what you want, England, you're gonna have'ta to go somewhere else to get it. It gives me no pleasure to hurt you like that."

There was a long pause where they listened to their hearts beating and their bodies breathing.

"It should've been - it could've been - so much more," the American whispered, his mouth still resting on England's ear, his breathing creating shooting thrills from Arthur's jaw, down his body and pooling deep, heavy desire in his groin. The nation knew that Arthur was becoming aroused again - even more than before - but Arthur did nothing. He would not draw attention to his treacherous body. His blood was pounding in his ears; he was fully hard again and his dick throbbed. Alfred had him in his trap - he was ensnared. He could feel the American's heartbeat against his back, his skin against his back, his thighs against his thighs, Alfred's strong, corded arms enveloping his body, his soft lips against his ear.

England had not thought it possible, but Alfred's voice became quieter still and low like a growl - it was now quite mesmerising. "I would have used all and any part of me to please you." He drew the island nation's earlobe into his mouth and nipped it gently before quickly releasing it. "My lips, my tongue, my fingers - all of it." He pressed his lips to the tendons in Arthur's neck. "I would have looked for all the ways to delight you, make your skin tingle and flame so you burst with desire and have to cry out because your body would DEMAND it." He traced his tongue firmly down Arthur's neck to his clavicle. "I would have held you close as a lover should, kissed you deeply, over and over, and..." he pushed Arthur's head to the side so he could feather the exposed neck with light kisses as one finger brushed the tip of England's cock making him gasp. "... looked into your eyes and watched you cum." A low moan escaped Arthur's throat.

Alfred released his hold on Arthur slowly and moved back from him. "I won't sleep with you again until you want what I have to give." Arthur remained naked and kneeling with his head bent forward, eyes closed and shielded by his hair. He listened to the whisper of clothing as Alfred dressed himself. He jumped a bit, startled, when the American draped his bomber jacket over his bare shoulders. The action shamed Arthur more completely as anything else the boy had said or done: the American needed to cover him from sight.

Alfred's quiet footsteps were the only noise in the room as he went on his way to Matt's room, where he planned to get a shower. The door closed and he was gone. And still, Arthur knelt there, stunned, shamed and, he also realized, sore. Sore from the cold and robust coupling, bruised hips, neck and face, and hurting in his soul. SOULLESS Alfred had called him.

He eventually stood. He should bathe, as it would ease the soreness, but found he was too tired. Shattered. He just wanted to lie down, to sleep, to forget. Did he want to forget? He realized as he lay on the bed that he wanted to sleep with the smell of the America- of sex with the American - still on his skin, just as the boy had said. He turned to the side, recalling what Alfred had told him he would do to his body and that he wanted to look into his eyes as he came. The same low moan escaped his throat, his head foggy, his stomach fuzzy, hot and full desire throbbed in his groin again, and he shivered as he imagined the phantom arms enveloping his chest and shoulders and hot breath playing in his ears and strong fingers ghosting in his hair.

The American was right. He did want him to do all those things and he hated him for that. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to hurt him, chase him away and break him down. Not end up wanting more than he was ever to have.

He swallowed loudly and let out a shaky breath. He wanted nothing more than for this torment to end, and for him to go back to his world. So in a sad and exhausted attempt, he tried to fall back asleep, and to visit the only place he could call home.

((UUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH! OMIFUCKING GOD, FINALLY! I'VE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOREVER, MY COMPUTER WOULD CONSTANTLY STOP WORKING AND IT SUCKSSSS! Well anyway, what's why it took so long. But here, I hope this long chapter of sex would make up for it , I have a game I wanna play! I used a fic as reference at the end because it fit so fucking perfectly, and the first person to guess what it is gets a free one shot request for me to write~ ^^ Let me know what you think, I love feedback, please let me know if you have any ideas or complaints, I always respond to my reviews when I can. I don't know when the next chapter will be out, but it will be out sometime this month or next two weeks. I have spring break coming next weekend, so I'll have more time to work on it. QWQ))


	4. Chapter 3

Alfred walked the halls lost. He was given strange looks by passers by. Here it was, three in the afternoon, and he was walking around in nothing but his boxers and an unbuttoned dress shirt.

He stumbled almost aimlessly, but only almost. He had somewhere he was going to go, but he couldn't seem to remember. It was his brothers room, wasn't it? Yeah...he was going to bunk with him during this meeting like usual, but when he was ordered to fuck Arthur, they had been assigned together for rooms.

The problem was, he didn't know what room he was in now, but under some twisted sign, he saw Carlos slipping out of a open door, bringing in a tussled head of hair with a single blond curl bouncing for a kiss. If Alfred wasn't so numb, he would have been furious.

Cuba broke the kiss before delivering on last quick peck on the lips, stroking the soft cheek on Matthew's face. He noticed a figure standing beside him, waiting quietly for him to leave and the smell of burgers and sex told him it was America.

He stepped back a bit to get a better look at him. The kid didn't look so good. He was a bit paler than normal and clearly upset. His normal smile gone and replaced with something sour and depressing. He seemed to be alone in the world and wanted nothing more than to be comforted by the only person in the world he could trust. And Carlos realized he was standing in the way of that.

America was staring patiently at his feet, waiting for the man to step aside and for Matthew to let him in, not daring to speak a word about what he knew was happening here. Apparently, Matthew had taken his chance on getting some alone-time with his on and off 'boyfriend' while America was bedding someone else. And its not like he could blame him, he would have done the same thing. And obviously, he did.

But that didn't mean he didn't like the Cuban. Actually, he was surprised he was holding his tongue so well.

Carlos was as well, and he made an effort not to say anything as well. It wasn't needed. They both knew they hated each other. Him for America constantly trying to keep Matthew away from him, and America for having to pick up the pieces when Cuba tended to cheat with others while being devoted to his brother. They seemed to find a common ground now though in the silence and he stepped aside. Matthew peeked his head out curiously and gasped when he saw his brother, instantly pulling back into his room. But he popped back out when he registered how America's appearance seemed to be haggard and broken. He pushed himself out the door, clutching onto the bedsheets he wrapped around his waist tightly.

Alfred didn't move but looked up slightly as Matthew edged closer to him, his hand outstretched slightly. "...Al?" He whispered, "Are you alright?" The American just shook his head and slumped a bit, clutching onto his brother so suddenly in seemed as if he was falling. And maybe he was, he didn't know. All he knew was that Matthew was there, and he couldn't stand without him, not anymore.

"Al! Al, whats wrong?" He choked out, obviously disturbed by his brothers sudden collapse. "Cher, what's wrong?" He cooed quietly, stroking his hair as his brother clung to him with all he had in him at this moment. Matthew's eyes drifted up to Carlos' in a silent plea for him to leave. And he did. With one last, fleeting glance, he turned and walked away.

Alfred muttered something into his bare shoulder and all Matthew could gather was bath. "Yeah...yeah, we can take a bath, Al." He nodded as he tried to heard the other into his room. America was shaking slightly and he seemed to be fighting off tears. Once he was in, he closed the door and America stood before him, waiting quietly as he stared at the floor.

Matthew walked over to him slowly, hands steady but unsure as they slipped the shirt off of his brothers shoulders. The fabric slid off and pooled around his ankles along with the blanket Matthew had dropped moments before, leaving him naked and completely exposed before his twin. America let out a shaky breath and tried to slip out of boxers, Canada's hands trailing over the shaking flesh of Alfred's shoulders.

Once the last piece of clothing between either of them was shucked, Matthew gently grasped the trembling hand before him and led the man to his bathroom. He slipped himself into the basin and Alfred fallowed suit, letting himself lean against his brothers chest from between his legs as the water rose around them. The faucet loud in the silence.

"You know...this was good timing, eh?" Matthew put out in the open, head resting back against the wall. "I was going to jump into the shower right after Carlos left, so I'm glad you showed up when you did or else you might not've gotten any hot water..." He was met with not words, not even a gesture, only Alfred sinking deeper into the water and sliding further down his wet skin.

"Al...I need you to tell me what happened," Matthew whispered, his forehead resting gently on the back of his brothers head. "I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong."

"Why does it feel so right when you hold me from behind?"

The question was so sudden and random Matthew didn't know how to react. "...Because its geography." He supplied. "Its only natural."

"And yet, here we go, chasing other people..." Matthew could see where this was going. The talk about...THEM...

"Al-"

"You and me...we're MADE for each other! Our land, our borders, everything fits, everything is perfect. We probably have the best relations in the entire world, and yet...I'm not happy. I'm not happy with what I have with you, I want it to be more...but...I don't love you. Not like that anyway...but I should...and it doesn't make any sense to me. None at all. And goddammit if I don't want things I can't have, including you, or any other person I've ever had a relation with that went beyond a good lay in bed. I want...I want..." His voice broke off, the shuddering continued.

"You don't know what you want." Alfred's head bowed, a sign that, even though he already knew he was, Matthew was right. Alfred DIDN'T know what he wanted. He wanted things to work out, but he didn't know how to do that. He wanted things to be simple, but it didn't happen that way. He wanted to just be able to love someone who would never hurt him, but he couldn't. Those were things he WANTED, but obviously not what he needed. Because if they were, wouldn't he already be with Matthew? Wouldn't they already be together and happy? Wouldn't he be able to keep Carlos away and keep Matthew to himself, saving both of them from hurt and heartache?

What he needed was Arthur. As pure and bright as day, as dark and cold as night, he needed the man. He needed him like air. And yet...he didn't want it. He didn't want to love the man. But he did. He didn't want to be so completely enthralled with the Brit, but he was. And it drove him nuts.

The things he wants and needs had a very, twisted, yet defined line between them, and he didn't know which side he belonged on. The one with his brother, where he knew he should always be, or the one with Arthur, one who hurt him and himself, one who didn't want to be anything to anyone. He didn't understand why that was even a question, the obvious, the smart answer was with Matthew, and yet, he knew, deep down, that he belonged with Arthur. But to be able to cross the line, to stray from the painful numbness of being in the limbo, was something he didn't think he was strong enough to do. And he had tried. Oh, god knows he had tried before. If this morning was any indication of it, he had tried with all he had. And yet, all of his efforts were always for nothing. Just another fight, or another crushing blow of betrayal from the pirate. Or a nothing night of trying his damnest to fall for his own twin brother so he wouldn't hurt so much, so MATTHEW wouldn't hurt so much, only for both of them to crawl back to the people who cut them deepest.

"I want to love you Matt...but I can't. I tried...I've tried so fucking hard its not even funny...I've tried to stop loving him, I've tried so-so FUCKING hard, I cry at night because it kills me to even TRY to forget him! And... and I don't know why! Why can't I love you?! Why can't we work?! Its not FAIR! Its not...Its not fair..."

Matthew just stayed silent, listening to Alfred's anguished sobs as the American poured out his frustration and mirth into words of self-loathing and hate. He just hummed a quiet, familiar tune, almost unheard under the pounding of the water and Alfred's retched sobs and wails of despair, rubbing the others shoulders and back as he had curled in on himself.

"If we could choose who we fell in love with, the world would be an entire different place, babe." He said gently, his eyes gazing lazily into the air above his head. "I WISH we could fall in love, I WISH it could be that simple, but its not. I want to be able to love you, but...if we all got what we want, wouldn't we all be part of Russia right now?" he joked lightly. When Alfred only shuddered harder he sighed. Probably not the best thing to say at the moment.

"I messed up. BAD."

"We all mess up."

"No, I mean BAD-big time...I tried to make it something that it wasn't...I-I HURT him, Matt, I HURT him!"

"What'd...what'd you do...?"

"I...I FUCKED him, Matt, I...I FUCKED him. I did it his way, but...I tried to do it mine too. I told him...aaalllll the things I would do to him if he would let me, but I called him..." Alfred took a deep, shuddering breath. "I called him soulless. I...I let him get to me, to humiliate me. I let him...I let him make me the villain."

Romano lent in to gently catch Spain's soft mouth and they kissed deeply and searchingly. Antonio caught the Italian around the waist and drew him against his chest while his right hand played through Lovino's hair. Lovino responded, his arms hands clasping Spain's hips, pulling them towards himself, feeling Antonio erection against his own, gasping during the kiss at the feel of it.

They had only started touching, and yet Lovino found himself at such a pitch of desire. It was almost as painful as pleasant while it was unsatisfied. Spain was maneuvering Lovino towards the Italian's hotel room. He disengaged from the kiss and led Spain to the bedroom hurriedly, the buzz from the bar still rushing through his system. They slammed the door shut before ripping the clothing off, unceremoniously undressing until they were naked before one other again. Lovino was again transfixed by how much he desired the man before him, how much he wanted to drink in his form and he wondered if Spain felt the same.

Spain made the first move towards him and drew Lovino into another passionate kiss, his hands running over Lovi's back, setting it alight with pleasure. Romano's hands dived into the man's hair, massaging the scalp and running his fingers through it, then finding Antonio's jaw line and neck and running his fingers along those, sparking electricity in his own fingertips. Spain was moaning gently into the kiss each time the others fingers touched his skin. Romano found himself excited by these noises, provoking him to touch the man more and more greedily. His hands, like Spain's own mirrored on Lovino's body, were now exploring the Spaniard's sides, stomach and back, at first gently then grasping with more urgency to touch and to feel each other.

The Italian was hungry for sex and any touch seemed to enervate every nerve ending in his body and he felt weak at the knees. Spain had disengaged from kissing and had Lovino almost bent backwards over one strong arm whilst his lips and teeth once again explore Romano's neck and chest. Lovino realized he himself was moaning and hissing through clenched teeth at the deep, searing pleasure these attentions were invoking in him, layering pleasure upon pleasure to his throbbing desire.

The man now lowered Lovino onto his bed, still firmly kissing and nibbling at his neck and chest, occasionally sucking on the skin. It was all he could do to hold on to Spain's hair as he was driven to a frenzy. Lower and lower the Spaniard's head went, exploring Lovino's ribs and stomach and further down. When Antonio began to kiss and nibble the end of Lovino's too hard cock, Romano thought he would just split wide open with pleasure. Then Spain drew his tongue firmly up and down his shaft before taking all of him in his mouth and sucking gently whilst his hands massaged his balls and stroked his opening. Lovino cried out. He had not expected it. He could feel Spain smile against his own cock. Then he moved himself back up over Lovino, his right hand still working against his opening, using his fingers expertly to prepare him; his left hand now cupping the others head close to his own to kiss the Italian passionately once again. Both men were sweating and Lovino's breathing was particularly ragged. It seemed to be taking all his self-control now not to come before he'd even been penetrated and his whole body ached to be entered and possessed fully.

Spain stopped kissing Lovino, and drew himself slightly away as he positioned his own engorged cock with his hand to enter the tight hole. He looked directly into the others honey colored eyes, his own green orbs darkened, pupils dilated with pleasure. There was no doubt in Lovino's mind that he could not now have looked away even if his life depended on it he was so enraptured. The man pushed into him slowly, never taking his eyes from Romaon's own, soft moans escaping from him matched the others.

One hand held Lovino's hip firmly as Spain slowly ground into him, he then firmly held the youngest ones cock and began to stroke it in time. With both of Lovino's hands firmly grasping and kneading Antonio's backside with urgency, each thrust was slow and deep, seemingly designed to tantalize and thrill Romano to the point of madness, Antonio whispering "Lovi" amongst the moans, almost like a mesmeric chant that sent Romano's head spinning. Antonio bent his head into the Italian's ear as he thrust and whispered, "Tell me what you want, amour." Lovino's eyes were beginning to water. So much of his usual reticence had already been cast aside, did the man expect him to beg for release? How had the man managed to keep such iron control of himself? Lovino himself was almost in pain he was so desperate to come and he realized his moans were becoming almost whimpers of helplessness.

Still Antonio continued his slow and deep penetration occasionally adjusting his hips causing Lovi to gasp further, still not quickening, not taking his eyes from him. "Please," Romano almost choked on his own desire, "please you bastard, I need... please I need you to ... faster and harder!"

Antonio's eyes were still fixed on his and a small smile played on his lips, and Lovino thought he heard the man say in the softest voice, "I love you, Lovi."

Surely and certainly, Spain began riding Lovino just harder at first, his grip also tighter. Romano's breath began to hitch. Deep and very hard. The pace began to quicken. Still Antonio's eyes never left Lovino's face. "Tell me, Lovi, tell me."

"Please," was all Lovino could manage, but Spain thrust in faster and harder than ever, each thrust eliciting a grunt from Antonio and wrenching loud hitching breaths from Lovi, who could no longer look at his boss because his eyes rolled back into his head, color bursting in his black vision as his orgasm flooded over him in such powerful waves that he again cried out. Within two thrusts this time, Antonio came too, crying out hoarsely. Lovi looked at Antonio and drank those green eyes deeply, trying to steady his own breath as Spain slowly pumped a couple of time more before lowering himself onto Lovi's chest and calming his own breath, and then kissing him.

The southern half of Italy hated that this had happened, once again. That he had abandoned his reasoning's, to let himself slip and allow himself to fuck his former care taker, but as Spain lay down next to him, and pulled Lovino back into his chest and wrapped his arms around him and kissed his head and neck gently, Lovino knew he would never have been capable of such sexual abandon had he not been drunk. A treacherous part of him wished it could continue so he could explore these extraordinary and liberating sensations more. But then, being allowed to love the other, despite being a nation wasn't a liberty he was ever going to receive. Surely, it was too much to ask.

He wondered what Spain was thinking now, Antonio, who was holding him tight to his body as if he were treasured and who would kiss his head and neck every now and then with affection and caring.

Lovino was tired, but he didn't want the man to leave. He didn't want ghost arms; he wanted these real arms around him, just for the night. They could discuss how this was a mistake, how this shouldn't be happening tomorrow. Their heads would be clear tomorrow, rid of alcohol and lust. "Are you going to stay here with me, Bastard?" he asked quietly.

Spain's arms tightened and he breathed, "Si," into Lovino's ear and nuzzled his hair. "I'll always stay with you, my little tomato."

"You know you can't."

"But I want to." Lovino nodded.

"Of course you want to." He gritted out through clenched teeth. "And ventually, you'll leave me again, to go sleep with my brother, or Prussia, even that wine bastard." His eyes slid shut, not wanting to deal with the tears that began to burn the surface. "We can never be together, Antonio, it hurts too much. We shouldn't..." his voice broke a bit. "We shouldn't even be doing this right now. Its just going to hurt more when you leave, and its going to kill both of us when we see each other with anyone else."

"Why won't you admit it, Lovi?" Spain whispered, his quiet voice protraying the hurt. "Why won't you admit you love me?"

Lovino was silent for a moment, but then, in the shadows of the dark quiet hotel room, the most honest, and truest sentence came out of 'Lovino the Liar's' mouth. "Because when you love something, every time a bit of it goes...you lose a piece of yourself." And you Antonio, he thought to himself, never stay.

((Whelp, there we go. The third chapter! Huzzah! Yeah, its short, but I'll update a new chapter sometime this week. I wanted this chapter to show just how fucked up the personal relations are with other countries, how it hurts to love someone but to never be able to do anything when they go and whore themselves off for money or their country.

I made a head cannon for this story that yes, Matt and Carlos have been together various times, and none of them have worked out because he cheats. He's not a bad guy or anything, but he's not a very trustworthy partner. He'll sleep around because his boss tells him to, or because he can't keep it in his pants. And it hurts Matthew every time, and Carlos and him DO love each other, but it's not a healthy relationship and it only hurts the both of them, and yet...like many of the characters in this story, when you've loved somebody for hundreds of years, its hard to let them go.))


	5. Chapter 4

As distressed as Arthur had been when he went to bed by the events hours before, he had slept dreamlessly and awoke around eight PM sore, but rested and clear-headed. It surprised him. He thought on it while he bathed and applied various healing charms to his bruises. Had it really been as simple as him needing to find release? That he just needed to get it out of his system? Wasn't that really rather reminiscent of ridicule aimed towards him for his rather serious demeanor: "a good shag would sort him out"?

Yes, he remembered that. As he recalled, it was normally followed by some jab about his appearance (his eyebrows, his hair, his thinness) or his personal hobbies making the possibility of a lover quite remote. He had always been a very reasonable man and always found those cracks particularly hurtful. He found he didn't much care what was said about his looks: he knew he was unpleasing to the eye.

Francis had made sure he understood that from a very early age. Oh yes. But he had one thing Francis could never have and could never take away from him: his magic. England worshiped his magic; the power that it gave him, the possibilities it would open up for him. Magic and alcohol would be his escape from misery, wouldn't they? It was never that straightforward for him though, was it?

No time for reverie, he thought as he dressed. He needed to check in with the queen. He'd been very... rambunctious lately, and it must have been driving her insane if she actually handed Alfred the responsibility of taking care of him. He was feeling well today: better than he had for weeks. He wasn't concerned about seeing the American either – he knew the boy had been humiliated this morning, even if it had cost Arthur no small amount of shame himself. Thinking back on the yank's anger and shame gave him some small pleasure.

But yet, at the same time... it made him feel hollow. And for some reason, he felt as if he was sinking into an abyss. Like cold, dead hands were pulling him down, pulling him in and tearing him down into the dark, cold, and lonely existence he had found himself a part of. And he kept sinking. Even after he made his way out of the hotel and to the nearest drugstore, he felt his heart deflate. Strange...that body part didn't seem to be there most of the time. But the thought of him being all alone pulled at his heart-strings, yanked them out and drowned him in his own blood from the inside out.

He paid for his pack of cigarettes with a gruff thank you, and then left the stuffy shop. He walked around, feeling more lost and feeble than he had in weeks. It was strange. He had thought this morning was when he was truly weak, but he saw why it was now. It was BECAUSE of earlier. Sure, he had wounded Alfred… but the boy had taken a much bigger shot and caught him right in the chest. Where his soul apparently WASN'T.

Arthur choked on air and hissed in frustration. Who the hell was that whelp to believe that he was any better than him?! He wasn't! He...wasn't...Arthur sighed and collapsed on a random stone porch, fiddling desperately for a fag and his lighter. When it WAS lit, he brought his trembling lips to his mouth and took a deep, shaky breath and inhaled as much smoke as he could.

As he tried to relax a women, who seemed to be in her forties, began to descend the steps. She stopped, hesitating with her hand on the rail as she looked down at him. Her dark skin and looks, obviously from another country, graced Arthur's appalling appearance and she sat down. She was clearly overweight, as were many of the people roaming this land, but she still looked beautiful in her turquoise shirt and black, flowing skirt. She placed her bag down beside her and spoke to him.

"You shouldn't smoke. It'll kill you." Her Jamaican voice was like music to his ears and he wanted to tune it out. She was too precious, too pure to be tainted by his presence.

The woman leaned forward to get a better look at him. Arthur blew out some more smoke, his thick eyebrows drawing together as he shook his head. "I don't care."

"There are plenty o' ways to die. But you have to figure out a way to live. Now, tat's hard." She replied softly, gazing intently at his face. Arthur looked down at the cement steps, her words sinking into his brain and finding purchase. The first seed was planted, and she stood up, making her way into her apartment with nothing more to say to the strange man who had decided to perch himself upon her doorstep.

*Le POV Change*

"This stuff with England, like, is totally, crazy!" Poland huffed, rolling his eyes. Toris just sighed and reached into the mini fridge, pulling out a cold beverage.

"Yeah... Mr. England isn't... feeling very well lately. I think Mr. America will fix that though. He's a very kind person."

"Yeah, I guess. A bit stupid though, dont'cha think? He, like, totally doesn't like my fashion tips." Feliks grumbled in annoyance, his green eyes glinting with an irritable shine as he flicked his hair.

"I think its because last time you tried to get him into a frilly pink night gown." Toris smiled and leaned down from behind the Polish man. Feliks puffed up a bit, his arms crossing defiantly against his chest.

"Humph." He deflated a bit, his shoulders slumping as he whispered, "I'm just worried about those two fashionless dweebs is all..."

"Leave them for tomorrow," Lithuania said. He brandished the bottle of whiskey. "For tonight, just worry about us," he smiled. "We should really be more relaxed with each other, I think. Make the most of things." He murmured sweetly as he brushed aside the hair that stood between him and that pale, soft neck.

Feliks moaned and tilted his head back, giving him more room to work with. They both knew Toris was lying. In truth, there was only one person he really wanted to be with, but the abusive - clearly psychotic woman - wasn't interested. So Lithuania made do with what he had.

It wasn't as if he DIDN'T love Feliks, but if he had to be completely honest, if he could choose, he'd be in bed with Belarus right now, working on making her forget all about her brother. It made Poland want to grit his teeth, but he didn't want to ruin them so he just sighed and pulled away when he felt the long, gentle fingers caress his skin.

Feliks lifted up two glasses from the mini-bars top. "I agree," he said. "But I wish to be relaxed in the bed." The Polish boy whispered seductively in his ear and led Toris there, who followed smiling. Feliks undid the bottle and started to pour. No sooner than when two glasses were filled, Lithuania was undressing his partner, deftly and swiftly. It took him by surprise but Feliks joined in, heat pooling in his groin immediately as he felt startlingly thick with desire. Only once they were naked did Toris draw him into an embrace and kiss him deeply and searchingly. Poland responded eagerly, their bodies now pressed against each other, their erections caught against each others stomachs.

Still standing and kissing passionately, their hands wandered firmly over each others torsos, raking each of their chests and sides, tracing patterns over their backs and down their spines. Their kisses broke as they explored the exposed necks and shoulders with teeth, lips and tongues. Feliks marvelled at the other's reactions, sighs and moans excited his own stomach and groin. It no longer felt alien to Poland to vocalize his pleasure to Toris, who rewarded him with more pleasure for any pleasure shown. Lithuania was a heady and intoxicating man. Who needed whiskey?

Like always, Toris had brought Poland to his tipping point, and was now tracing his fingers between his butt cheeks, hovering around his opening teasingly and around to massage his balls. His other hand was lightly caressing his too hard erection, in a manner calculated to drive Poland insane. Poland took hold of Lithuania's erection firmly and he pressed into him, kissing him hard. He knew from other nights that he would have to tell Toris what he wanted if he wanted the man to stop tantalizing him. "I'm ready Toris. Please," he breathed.

Lithuania guided him back onto the bed, and pushed his legs apart to gain access. Leaning in to kiss Poland fully, his hands swiftly working to stretch and relax his lover further until his breathing became shallow and low moans escaped from him. Holding onto Feliks' hips, Toris then let himself into to the other gently, slowly and inch by inch, softly moaning with each push into Poland's muscles. Feliks had wanted him to thrust into him in one movement, but Toris wouldn't give in to Poland's hands hungrily grabbing his backside to pull harder.

His other hand pushed Feliks back onto the bed and held his shoulder there whilst he leisurely worked in and out of him, holding his eyes intensely, almost unblinking. Then he lent in again to catch Poland's mouth with his own, searching deeply with his tongue, his hand grasping Feliks' erection and stroking it firmly. His thrusts became deeper and faster, his hand in time with his hips. Toris was hitting Poland's prostate now over and over and Feliks called Toris' name loudly and sharply as the waves of pleasure hit over and over again, radiating through his body to his very nerve endings.

Both men were moaning, their bodies sweating, each man panting. Poland writhed underneath Lithuania and bucked against him to encourage Toris deeper and harder still. They moaned against each other's mouths, Lithunaia murmuring "Natasha" over and over again, as their blood coursed in their veins loudly and violently.

Poland wanted to cry, wanted to yell, wanted to do a lot of things, but he only moaned and pretended he didn't hear that sweet voice whispering someone else's name. Finally they came together fiercely, Poland with a moan and Lithuania with a cry, pushing the last of his orgasm out. Toris lowered himself next to Feliks and both lay there for a while to steady their breathing, Lithuania occasionally brushing light kisses against Poland's mouth, cheeks and forehead.

Once they were both calm again Lithuania sat up, pulled Poland to sit against him, and reached for the two glasses of whiskey on the bedside table, offering one to Feliks. "Are you relaxed enough for this now?" Toris smiled.

No... Poland thought. "Duh, of course I am," he replied wryly, thinking how very easy it would be to get used to this type of relaxation, but knowing it was only glamor and acting put on by the man he loved. Then man who loved someone else; but was too desperate to let go.

*Le POV Change*

"He's not here, Matt!" Alfred called out, having run into the bathroom of his rented living space. "He... he left..."

"Well... you had to of been expecting this, Al, I mean... it's ARTHUR." Matthew took a seat on a nearby chair, having thought twice before sitting on a bed that had not only his brother's release, but Arthur's as well.

"Yeah, but I didn't think he would just... LEAVE!" Alfred raked his hands through his hair as he spun around, looking for any clue or lead as to where Arthur may have gone to. "He didn't even write a note..."

"Would you?" Alfred frowned at him, not amused. But Matthew's face clearly showed he was being serious about what he'd said.

"No... I guess not... but he KNOWS! He KNOWS he's under my care! What the hell does he think he's DOIN'?!"

"Getting away from you." Canada stood up and pulled on his hoodie, making sure it was nice and snug around him, and then tossed Alfred his jacket. Arthur must have thrown in on the floor when he left because there it was. "Now get dressed, we have a depressed nation on the loose."

Alfred wasted no time in getting dressed and was running out the door as he fought with his coat, trying to get his arms through the familiar leather sleeves. Matthew shook his head and closed the door behind them.

As they walked, they asked people if they had seen where a moody blond person with humongous eyebrows had run off to. One had admitted to being in a drug store with a man who looked just like that earlier, but the had guy stormed off, and the citizen human hadn't seen him since.

They took their only lead and searched every block around a nearby drug store, but couldn't find any sign of him. And they continued their search. For hours they looked, and scanned, and walked looking for him, but Arthur seemed to be long gone.

"I think he's in another part of the town by now, Al... who knows where he is…?" Alfred shook his head, his hands buried deeply in his pockets as he stomped along.

"I can't stop looking. I can't. I gotta keep searchin' for 'im Matty. I have'ta." Matthew sighed and they continued onwards, facing the ground as they trudged along the windy streets of New York. They occasionally asked people if they had run into Arthur, but none had or, at least, they didn't remember having encountered the wayward nation.

And soon, Matthew had to leave. It was eleven at night and he had to meet with a few other people in the morning for business. He gave Alfred a long look of sorrow and apology. He wanted to stay, to help his brother in his time of need, but he had to go. Carlos had picked him up in a small, silver car he'd rented for this trip and gave him a small, crooked smile.

"Hope ya find him, ya capitalist pig." Alfred only huffed back, turning around and picking up where he'd left off. Carlos rolled up the window with a frown and gave Matthew a concerned glance. "That Arthur guy is gonna drive that kid nuts." Matthew only nodded and swallowed the feeling of betrayal as he spotted a blond hair that wasn't his on Cuba's shirt, looking forward with a small, sad smile.

*Le POV Change*

Dark had come and there Arthur was, still resting on the same porch he'd been before. Waiting, just WAITING for an answer for his problems. But he never did get one. "Child... what you still doin' here, don' you have a home to go to?" The thick, black woman from before was staring down at him, her hands on her hips as she leaned against the door frame.

Arthur sighed and curled further into himself. He shook his head as he replied: "No... Well... I suppose I do, but its not really anything you'd call a home. I don't have one of those anymore."

The Jamaican was silent for a moment before she grabbed his arm. Her soft, yet beefy fingers curled around the thin limb and she tutted. "I was righ. You need 'ta eat, child...now get on in tis house for some of my home cookin' or I'll kick you offa tis porch righ' now." She threatened lightly.

"Don't touch me," he protested weakly as she pulled him up with ease. "I'm sick."

"More liked starved." She murmured. "Now get in!" Arthur was escorted into a shabby, tiny apartment. The walls were a dirty shade of pink, ruined from all the previous tenants who had smoked within the cramped walls. Holes where nails and pictures used to hang, and a fairly clean splotched from where frames were hung and protected the poor paint job from all kinds of unhealthy things that had riddled the air years before.

Arthur stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do as the woman disappeared into what he assumed was the kitchen. After a moment, he heard her yell, "What chu waitin' for, get your ass in here!"

He quickly scrambled into the room, and then looked around. There was faded and stained floral wall paper, old, tattered drapes and ugly tiles beneath their feet, but all in all, the woman was clean and kept it all in spotless condition. He felt a bit of pity for her, having to clean up the mess others left behind, and try to make something decent of it, only to fail... it sounded like his life in some sense, but he pushed that murky thought aside.

On the table were two plates. They were chipped and mismatched, but she didn't seem to care. The lady was sitting patiently, looking up at him, expecting him to take a seat beside her, and so he did. It was a stiff and robotic movement, but he slid into the metal chair - with ripped leather cushions - and eyed his food.

It was Gumbo and god, if it didn't smell like heaven to his hungry nostrils. He looked up timidly to the person before him and she nodded. He dove into the bowl with about as much vigor as a person who'd got to fuck for the first time after spending a lifetime in prison. The woman just smiled softly before quietly, and much more sophisticatedly, ate her own fill.

"So...what a kid like yourself doin' on my porch at tis time o' night?" Arthur looked up and shame filled his face. He looked back down to his plate and set his spoon down onto the table.

"I..." He shook his head a bit. "I was trying to... to find some answers."

"Answers to what...?"

"About myself."

The woman stared at him for a moment before sighing lightly. "Nobody can give you them answers but yourself. And if you tink you can find tem on my porch, I'm going to let you know righ' now 'fore you disappoint yourself, I don't tink tey're here." She joked. Arthur chuckled nervously.

"Yes... I... I discovered that myself, ma'am. And I'm sorry I took the liberty of just...sitting on the steps of your home without permission, but I... I didn't know where else to go..."

She hummed and gave him a curious look. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty three, ma'am."

"You seem so much older, you can tell," she said. "In your eyes. You've had a hard life."

Arthur nodded. If only she knew..."I can't say it's been particularly easy."

"I don' tink any of us in tis city can say tat."

"Heh, yes...'New York, the safest big city in the world', right?" He joked. The woman smiled bitterly.

"It really no differen' from any otha place in tis planet." She looked up at him suddenly. "Why you really here, child? What happened to ya?"

"What DIDN'T happen to me is the better question..."

"Is it a man?"

"What?" The question caught him off guard.

"Is it a man, a relation? Boyfriend?"

"Why do you just assume that I'm gay?"

"Honey, I've lived in places all over the world. I know one when I see one. Besides," she added. "I saw you limpin' when you came in here, you didn't get that from hurtin' no ankle." She smiled warmly at him, understanding in her eyes. "So...was it a man?"

"...Yes."

She hummed. "What he do?"

"He... he wants to love me." The lady gave him a confused glance.

"Is tat a bad ting?"

Arthur thought about it for a second. Was it? Yes. Yes it was. Alfred wanted to change him, to make him something he wasn't to make him vulnerable, to wheedle his way into his heart only to rip it out by the strings.

"Yes, ma'am."

"How so?" She leaned forward, resting her head on her palm as she listened intently.

"I don't want to love, you see. I want to... I want..."

"Do you know what cha want? Because it seem like ya don'. An' I seen many a folk who know wha' tey WAN' but NOT wha' tey NEED. So tell me child, what is it cha WANT?"

"To be free..." he whispered. "I want to be free. I want it all to end, to just give up, but... but I can't... I'm STUCK. I'm STUCK in this body with no way out."

"Child... I tink ya need ta dig inside. You jus' wanna quit, but cha CAN'T. An' you don' know why. Tis... tis confusion ya facin', ya tearin' yas'elf up doin' tis ta ya'self."

"But I HAVE dug."

"Did ya find yer ansa?"

"... No..."

"Ten dig a bit deepa." She responded, leaning back into her chair.

"I... I've been digging and all I've found is... is this EMPTINESS. It's... astonishing... numbing to find that... inside of you is a stranger. One that has your arms, your legs, your eyes... A sleepless, restless stranger who keeps walking, keeps eating, keeps... living." Arthur's voice was hollow and quiet, and his eyes glazed over as he spoke. He began to tremble a bit; the dark, cold, numbing feeling returning inside of him. The warmth of the Gumbo was dissipating within him.

"I tink, maybe... maybe ya need some help diggin'. Maybe tis isn' sometin' you can find all on ya own. I tink, you need someboday like dat man we was talkin' 'bout earliah ta help chu."

"I... no. I can't..."

"No, you can. You just don' WANNA let 'im in. But dat's not what'cha NEED now is it?" She said a bit louder, her powerful, yet almost... magical voice rung in the air. "I tink dis man can help ya find out who ya are. If you really wanna stop bein' a stranga ta ya'self, let him help ya. Let 'im in child. And if not 'im. Someboday who can actually feed you properly at least." Arthur felt his throat clench at her beautiful smile. It was so radiant, so wise and strong it made him feel so small and insignificant. Did he even know how to smile anymore? He doubted it.

"I-" Arthur jumped when he heard the chime of the clock on the wall, twelve strokes of the bell. "Its late... I should be going." He murmured staring down at the table. The woman shuffled a bit before standing up. She grabbed his plate and her own before she set the dishes on a counter near the sink.

"I'ma ask you again, child." She whispered, leaning in a bit closer. "Do'ya have a home ta go to?"

"... I'm not sure, ma'am... but I suppose I'll figure it out." He walked to the door with her on his heels, and without warning, something wrapped around his neck. A scarf.

"Eitha way, you keep warm out t'ere, a'ight?"

Arthur chuckled and nodded, wrapping the cloth securely around himself. "Yes ma'am." He stepped outside and down her steps. And gave her one last look before her door closed completely. "My name is Arthur."

The woman smiled through the crack and he could have sworn her eyes twinkled a bit. "I don' know why, but it's a pleasure to be able ta call ya tat." And the lock clicked shut quietly in the busy night.

"Maybe because you're the only one who can call me by that name now..." he whispered to himself. His words must have carried on the wind because as soon as those words were uttered, an exhausted American look up from down the street.

Alfred walked calmly, his messy hair blowing gently in the night air as he made his way over to England. Once they were before each other, Arthur stared at the ground. America was mere inches in front of him and he hadn't a word to say. Alfred stared at him intently and after a moment, slowly reached his hand out. Arthur flinched at the motion and Alfred felt himself choke up for a second before his hands graced the knitted strings of Arthur's scarf.

England felt a rush of air leave him and America clutched him to his chest, looking up at the sky like it had the answers for both of them… like it had words for him to say, sprawled out in the stars. But it didn't. And he supposed that was okay too, because Arthur clutched onto him too, and it all seemed alright, if only for a moment.

But just as quickly as it had started, it ended. And they released their hold on each other and the world felt a bit colder, a bit more scary without their shared warmth, but they walked in it anyway, making their way to the hotel together.

And that's how it should be, America thought to himself. Me and him against the world. But I know, and he knows, we got to find ourselves before we can find each other...

((Jesus H. Christ...this was really difficult to write for some reason. I fell like I can do better...I don't know. But here's some awesome news! I have a beta you guys! Yaaaay~ she's super nice and patient with my mistakes and is a big help in this project! Sora Resi!

But yes, this isn't the end folks, NOPE! In fact, far from it and shit ACTUALLY STARTS HAPPENING! OMG! I know, you guys have been so patient with this, I don't know how, I'm slow...but anyway, I'm not sure when I'll have the next one up because I'm still plotting it out, but I'll eventually get it up sometime soon, so don't worry!

If anybody has any pairings they'd like for me to put in here, let me know, because, as you can see, I've been dabbling in other peoples lives in this story to make it more interesting and it will have a purpose later, I swear.))


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Have you ever wanted to ask a question but you didn't because you knew in your heart that you wouldn't be able to handle the answer?_

_OoOoOoOoO_

_Why can't I feel anything from anyone other than you?_ Matthew thought, his eyes drifting up to meet his lover's. The Cuban was pulling on his pajama pants: a simple pair of black and gray striped sweats that were tied loosely by some pull strings hidden within the waistband.

"Cuba... have you ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't have?"

Carlos looked up to the blond, his mood instantly falling. He knew where this was headed. They always ended up. Cuba stared for a minute before turning his back to him and asking, "Why do you want to know?" Matthew gripped the sheets tightly between his fingers, wringing them in his sweaty, trembling hands. Cuba stood before him, his back facing him as he waited for Matthew to speak.

"I know I shouldn't care about you... but I do." A small, timid voice choked out. "I fell for you so hard... I couldn't even comprehend it at first."

"Matthew, just get on with it." Cuba gruffed out. He didn't want to hear this, not when he knew the boy was leaving him. Why did he have to talk about it? Why couldn't he just say goodbye and go?

"Carlos... some people will never fit in your life, no matter how much you want them to." He began, voice trembling as he took a shaky breath. "One of the hardest parts of life is deciding whether to walk away or try harder. Maybe I should move on," he thought to himself out loud, looking Carlos in the face, seeming to gain a shred of confidence from his spot on the bed. "Forget about you and how you make me feel, or maybe I should hold on. Who am I kidding? You don't even care at all."

"I DO care-"

"If you CARED, you would have bothered to talk to me. Obviously, you don't." Canada shook his head, frustration obvious in his voice. "I've been waiting for you to change, to do what you say you're going to do, only for you to hurt me and let me down. But I keep coming back. I keep staying and waiting. And I know it's stupid to wait for you, but every time I try to move on, my heart keeps insisting that you're the one. I know I should probably just let go, cause I know that it won't work out and everyone tells me that. So I try to convince myself that I'm better off without you. But then I'll think of you and remember your smile that makes me melt... I can't imagine myself with anyone else, no matter how hard it is. I want to be with you." He broke eye contact, looking away from him quickly, ashamed. "I thought I could handle this, but I really can't. Honestly, I feel really stupid for holding onto things that just keep on hurting me." He looked up sadly, the hurt and betrayal casting dark shadows under his eyes. And in a tiny, almost unheard whisper he choked out, "You became everything you said you wouldn't be."

"... Do you hate me for that?" Carlos asked. "For lying, cheating? For going out and sleeping with other people, HUMANS?" He turned around fully, and glared down at him. But his stare held no bite. "Does that make you hate me?"

"I don't hate you," Matthew's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I'm just disappointed you turned into everything you said you'd never be. And maybe I did get my hopes up too high," he added. "We're countries, we're going to sleep with others, we can't help it, but that's not the problem. You don't have to sleep with humans, and you fuck other countries even when its not REQUIRED!"

"I'm sorry..." His words sounded hollow, empty, like always. It made Matthew grind his teeth together, and he jumped up from the mattress.

"You can say sorry a million times, say I love you as much as you want, say whatever you want, whenever you want. But if you're not going to prove that the things you say are true, then don't say anything at all. Because if you can't show it, your words don't mean a thing!"

"Just because I don't show it doesn't mean I don't feel it." Carlos breathed out. Matthew turned on him quickly, his eyes wet and full of anger and heartbreak.

"Do you have any idea how much the things you say affect me?" The Canadian was pacing furiously around the room now, like a lion in a too small cage who just wanted to rip its own mane out. "Do I need to cry in front of you so you can understand how much you hurt me?" A single, large tear rolled down his left cheek as he spoke those words, his voice cracking horribly. "Even if it hurts, even if you make me cry, I love you, and I can't tell if it's killing me or if it's making me stronger."

"Matthew-"

"You can't treat people like shit and expect them to love you!" He roared. "Can't I be your last fling? For you to promise me you won't love anyone other than me?" He gripped the front of his chest to emphasize his point as he continued. "I just want you to care about me. I'm just tired of your empty promises. Basically, I wished that you loved me! I hate the idea of anyone else having you!"

"Nobody else DOES have me Matthew - I love YOU!"

"Oh, really?" He challenged. "'Cause I'm pretty sure you said that to her, her, and... her." He tossed a tiny pocket book with different pictures of Carlos and other women and men. All blond, and all doing sexual things to him. But one stood out more than others. Sheila. She was in multiple pictures, and was obviously one of his favorites seeing as how the places and outfits varied vastly. It was clear how frequent these rendezvous were, because the human had barely aged between the multiple photographs.

Cuba didn't know what to say to that. He came up with the only true statement he had in his possession at the moment. "To be honest, you're the only one I've ever spent this much time and effort on."

"I have a hopeless crush on someone I stand no chance with!" Matthew laughed bitterly to himself, tossing his head back as he looked to the ceiling, seeming lost. "Too tired to go on, too in love to let go..." He seemed to snap back to reality for a second as he glared at Cuba again.

"I can't stay mad at you," he replied, exhausted, "but words can't describe how much I hate myself." His violet eyes glinted, filled with unshed tears as he tried to hold them together. "I acted like it wasn't a big deal," he admitted, "when really, it was breaking my heart." He shook his head, wavy blond hair bouncing with the movement. "Once you have feelings for someone, they will always be there. You may not like them anymore, but you still care." He admitted. "I don't like you anymore, Cuba. I love you, but I don't LIKE you. And yet," he continued, "I'll always come running back to you, no matter how many times you hurt me, or how many times you make me cry, as soon as you need me, I'll be there." He looked up, his eyes meeting Cuba's, and the larger country could see the other's anguish. And yet... he couldn't hold back, he had to let it out.

"You're leaving me because its easier to walk away than to fight for something that you really love." He stated, staring the Northern nation down, his voice gruff and hurt.

Matthew bristled up, obviously angry at his words. He HAD tried, and Cuba knew this. If anything, HE was the one not trying. Matthew let it go though and nodded, stepping back and away from the other, looking towards the ground.

"Yeah." He admitted. "I am." He darted away and grabbed his bags, clutching them to his chest as he made his way to the door, opening it just enough for him to slip out before Cuba called out to him.

"Matthew, wait!" Carlos begged with sad, desperate eyes. "I love you." Matthew froze, back still to him.

"Show me, don't tell me." He sighed out. "I'm not going to do this to myself anymore. We've done this for too long. I'm not coming back until you can actually do what you say you're going to do."

"But what if I... what if I'm not able to change?"

"Then this is it, isn't it?" He responded curtly. "I mean it Carlos, I'm not coming back." But he tilted his head over his shoulder, giving him one last, hopeful, yet broken smile and spoke his parting words before he let the door close forever, leaving Carlos with it.

The Cuban only had the younger man's last words to give him comfort in the dark, lonely hotel room that seemed to be the very personification of failure and betrayal. The large man let the sentence repeat over and over in his mind, desperate to keep that small comfort with him.

And he didn't know why, but he felt compelled to write the words down. And so he did, scribbling the only line in the world that mattered to him anymore on a scrap piece of paper. And on that piece of parchment were the mangled words Matthew had departed with: But who knows, maybe one day we'll be perfect for each other.

OoOoOoO

Matthew knocked lightly on the door of Alfred and Arthur's hotel room, knowing they were safely tucked in bed thanks to a late night text from his brother three hours ago. He guessed they were probably asleep, but he didn't know where else to turn to, and he KNEW Alfred would let him in with open arms.

After waiting about five minutes, he heard a sleepy grumble and the rustle of a body getting untangled from the sheets. He could faintly make out America grumble out a 'shit' as he stubbed his toe or something, murmuring to himself, obviously half asleep. Matthew could also register that Alfred was telling Arthur to just go back to sleep and that he was going to 'take care of it'.

Not even a minute later, the door was yanked open, locks and all, to reveal an irritated American glaring out at him with sleepy, clouded eyes. His messy golden hair stuck up in strange places as a result of him rolling in the blankets and getting a static charge. Matthew jumped a bit, not expecting the door to be ripped off almost completely and a gruff voice to snarl out, "What?"

"U-Uh...hi, Al." Canada said softly, giving him a shaky smile and feeling a bit guilty for waking him up.

His brother blinked, registering who was before him and broke out in a large smile. "Matty!" He hugged him closely, nuzzling into his brothers neck and taking a deep breath, smelling the winds and trees and land and lakes that his brother was made out of. It was a homely, natural scent. The right one that nobody could copy or duplicate. It was Matthew's and Matthew's alone.

It finally seemed to dawn on Alfred's sleepy mind that there must be something wrong for his brother to be knocking on his door at four thirty in the morning. Alfred pulled back.

"Wait, what are you doin' here, are ya hurt?" He questioned, looking him over at arms length. "Are ya okay? Cuba didn't do nothin' to ya, did he, I'll kill 'em if he did, I swear ta god, Matt-"

"No! No..." He reassured. "Well... it had to DO with Carlos, but he didn't hurt me."

"... Physically."

"Al..." Matthew sighed looking up at him. Alfred had a tight lipped expression on his face, obviously holding in what he wanted to say for Matthew's sake. He let out a shaky breath and walked back into his brothers warm arms and sighed. "I left him." America's silent replies were clear.

Again, his body seemed to say.

"I won't go back to him this time."

You always say that.

"I mean it, Al." He felt the other pull him into his embrace and he allowed it, relaxing.

I just don't want you to get hurt.

"I'm fine, I just..." His words fell short and Alfred pulled back just enough to look down at his brothers face.

Wanna sleep together? He asked silently, rubbing the others back with his large, warm palms.

"Yes, please," he breathed, hugging the other close as he nodded into his golden hair.

Alfred wrapped his arm around the Canadian's shoulder as he turned back towards the door. Matthew walked in and looked back to see Alfred blink at the damage he'd done to the hotel's property.

"Shit." He lifted the door up slightly by its crushed handle, the metal groaning and scraping against itself as he tried to pull the door back into place and back away from it slowly, hands raised as if ready to catch should it fall.

Matthew smiled and shook his head slightly, then made his way to the bed. Arthur was currently resting in the middle, hogging the bed in his fitful rest. Alfred huffed fondly, and slid back into his original spot, watching as his northern brother took the space on the other side of Arthur, both of them crowding him in and keeping him warm and secure between their larger bodies.

Matthew stretched a hand over Arthur's body and reached out for his brother. Alfred accepted it happily, holding hands with the only person in the world he knew he could always believe in. They stared at each other in the dark, having silent conversations that only they could understand just by the feel and look of the other. And they wouldn't have it any other way. Eventually, they fell asleep, the tiniest wisps of dawn licking the side of the hotel and casting a strange peach light in the room through the cracks of the drapes.

OoOoOoO

Arthur woke up with the feeling of being completely surrounded by warmth and limbs. He could register Alfred's tan skin on his own sickly pale flesh, but he didn't know who was behind him, spooning him just like America was known for doing.

He caught the scent of maple and the tiny noise of 'eh' being snored quietly into his ear repeatedly.

Matthew.

He felt a strange, almost warm feeling from having both of his boys sleeping in the same bed with him like when they had been his colonies. When they had needed him. When he was important.

He frowned and the warmth fell into a familiar sticky feeling, slimy and cold. He hated it, but it was all he'd known for so, so long. That feeling of belonging was foreign to him now; he didn't want it. It felt strange and frightening. Dangerous.

He tried to shift his way out but both boys clamped down and clutched him tighter. One murmuring Kuma, and the other Tony. Arthur didn't know how to react to the second one and just tried to put it out of his mind. He didn't want to think about why Alfred was grumbling an alien's name out in his sleep as he cuddled up to him. At least Matthew slept with his pet polar bear... actually, both sounded rather ridiculous. Flying Mint Bunny would surely be a much more sensible idea for anyone to spoon with, he concluded in his mind.

Arthur pushed Matthew's arm off and he just rolled over with a grumble and a huff, annoyed at being disturbed. Once the Canadian's back faced him, he went to work on Alfred, but he wouldn't be deterred anywhere near as easily as his brother had been.

England attempted to pull apart Alfred's arms, wrapped securely around him, and it seemed to be working with no small amount of effort on his part. He was almost free, the arms loosening and falling to his lap as he sat up. Arthur let out a relieved breath and tried to look around. It was the same room he remembered falling asleep in: a plain, simple hotel room with cream walls and plush white carpets and a black mini-fridge under the marble counters. He also noted that the door and some of the wall and plaster around the frame had been ripped off, the handle completely crushed into a crinkled ball. He wasn't sure what had happened there, but he knew for a fact that the building's management wasn't going to be pleased with the American who had ripped their door off its hinges and taken some of the wall with it.

He couldn't dwell on the thought for long anyway, because said American let out a random loud snore and rolled over, arms still attached to Arthur's hips. The Brit let out a panicked yell as he was suddenly pulled and began to curse as he met the floor. There was no room on the bed for him to land, and he collided with the carpet. Both brothers startled awake and looked around in a sleepy panic, clearly alarmed and confused at what was going on, bleary eyes peering out through half-lidded eyes.

"America, you bloody wanker!" He hollered, obviously pissed at the boy for flipping him face-first off the bed.

"What'd I do?!" He questioned, completely confused as to what he did wrong. He was sleeping, after all.

"You flipped me off the bed, arse!"

"You're trippin', old man," he yawned, not interested or concerned in the slightest. If Arthur was yelling at him, he must be fine. Besides, that meant he was actually RESPONDING to something. Progress. Alfred smiled inwardly to himself, pleased with his conclusion.

Matthew had clambered off the mattress to help pull the Englishman off of the floor, but Arthur yanked his hand away rudely, giving the boy a nasty sneer. He brushed himself off as if he were dusty and stomped away to the minibar and fridge, flinging the door open and not caring if it hit the wall and rattled the glasses inside it dangerously. He pulled out the nearest bottle of scotch and rummaged around for a bottle opener. Once he did find one, Matthew swiftly pulled it out from his fingers with a fluid movement, and placed it on a very high shelf that Arthur would have to use a stool or similar implement to reach on his own.

"Arthur, you can't just go drinking like that this early in the morning," Matthew chastised. "You taught me that."

"I don't care what you have to say, Canada, if I want a bloody drink, I'll have one." His voice was venomous as he glared daggers up at his former colony. "So I suggest giving me that cork opener at once unless you want me to hide your arse like I used to, since we're talking about the past." Matthew looked uncomfortable, his resolve faltering slightly, and he stepped back. He shook his head though. Arthur was NOT getting that bottled opened if he could help it. The Brit snarled and used Matthew's slight hesitation to his advantage and quickly added, "And it's ENGLAND to you, tosser."

Canada took in a shaky breath of air and looked down. Arthur was vicious at times, knowing just what to say to make people hiss and recoil in pain. He wouldn't back down about the scotch, but he would give the man space. Matthew took a seat on the edge of the bed, and Alfred scowled at the Brit.

Arthur caught his angry stare but he just gave a dismissive noise towards him and went back to attempting to open the bottle with his bare hands. The fact that Arthur was ignoring him angered him further and he threw the blankets off of himself, revealing his strong legs and Batman boxers. Matthew jumped, looking back with clearly hurt eyes, shoulders slumped and low from Arthur's blow.

This made Alfred grit his teeth harder and advance towards the blond pulling at the cork with his teeth. Just as Alfred reached him he tried to pluck it out with a fork in the hard, spongy cap only to have the American rip it out of his hold.

"Hey!" Arthur yelled indignantly, "Give that back!" Alfred glared down to him, obviously in a sour mood with him, and snapped the silverware in two before dropping the remains at the other's feet.

"You're not drinking anymore, Arthur. As of right now, you are going through prohibition."

"And who exactly is going to make me," he challenged. "You? We all saw how well that worked out when you tried it on yourself didn't we, Canada?" Matthew looked up at the mention of his name, violet eyes flickering up to the scene before him. Alfred remained silent and stone faced as he silently gripped the bottle in Arthur's hands as well. "Oh, no you don't." England hissed, clutching it tighter to himself. Alfred was holding the neck of the glass with no effort and was pulling it towards his own chest. The room filled with the sound of cracking as he gripped it tighter in warning and Arthur, fearing it would shatter and spill all of its contents on the floor, let it go.

Alfred didn't seem satisfied with only having it in his hands and pinched the cork at the lip of the glass and pulled it out with a loud pop. Arthur scowled at him, unamused, but it was quickly replaced with an expression of horror as Alfred held the bottle over the sink and poured its contents out and down into the drain.

"What?! NO!" Arthur gasped, trying to go for the scotch again, but Alfred held him back with one hand held in front of him. "Stop wasting it!" He yelled, clearly getting more panicked as the bottled rapidly drained. "Idiot, STOP!" He held out one last, pleading hand in its direction, trying to reach out for it even though it was too late. The last drops were emptied out of its container and Arthur stumbled back weakly, looking at the cracked surface of the empty Scotch glass as Alfred handed it back to him, placing it in his shaking hands but not letting go of it. Arthur met his hard gaze staring down at him, face stern as he spoke.

"It's for your own good, Arthur." The happy, joking tone of voice gone and replaced with a more mature, irritated one. "How am I supposed to help you if you keep drowning yourself in your sorrows?" The question didn't want Arthur's answer or retort because it would only annoy him more, and Alfred just wasn't in the mood. "I don't care if you hate me for that, but you will NOT disrespect Matthew again, do you hear me? He's only here to help and if you treat him badly I'll..." Alfred wasn't sure what he'd do. What COULD he do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He couldn't hit him, he couldn't take anything away Arthur hadn't thrown away himself. He also couldn't use sex as a threat, as Arthur wasn't interested and he wouldn't sleep with him unless the Brit let him do it his way, so what, really, could he do?

"You can't do anything, 'Jones'." Arthur spat, the name tasting foul on his tongue. He was going to call his bluff - if the American wanted to remain the 'hero', he had no options left for him to use. "You're just as fucked as I am in this situation. You have to look after a suicidal nation and I have to be stuck with your worthless ass." He laughed bitterly. "We're both being punished, if you ask me."

Alfred ground his teeth silently, unsure of what to say. "You can order me around all you want, but you can't do shite to me, I'll just continue to do what I want and you'll frantically try to keep up this ridiculous facade of being a hero." The American was obviously lost for words and that made him just glare harder, his brows creasing angrily. Arthur leaned in closer, dropping the bottled to the ground with a dull thud as he whispered, "You're not a hero, America. You're just a scared little kid whose nothing more than a failure. You failed to bring up your economy, to stop those planes, to fight poverty, terrorism, you FAILED." His lips brushed the others ear and he dealt the final blow.

"If anything, you're a villain."

Alfred was frozen for a second, face still stern, but as he slowly stood up and met the other's victorious eyes he felt overwhelming frustration, and all he could say in response was, "Don't fuck with Matty like that again." Then he walked away calmly.

'He doesn't know what he's saying,' Alfred thought to himself, distressed by the Brit's words. He tried, he really did, but he did fail. As soon as he fixed one problem, there would be five more waiting. One step forward, two steps back. 'But think, all those one steps do add up, right? Sure I get knocked back, but I am farther than I used to be, I'm the fucking world superpower! Failure my ass, I'm a hero!... Right?'

"Die a hero or live long enough to become the villain, eh, America?" Arthur called over, smirking at the other's inner turmoil. "And you've lived a pretty long life."

"Arthur!" Matthew cried out, trying to come to his brother's rescue. "Stop it! All this over a little alcohol. Grow up! He's only looking out for you, so quit being such a hosser (hoser?)!"

"You're talkative today," Arthur noted, wondering how he should go about shaming the Canadian, but a hand landed on his shoulder. He glanced up at Alfred, confused about how he had got there so fast. He hadn't even seen him move, but sure enough, there he was, squeezing his fist slightly harder.

"Don't." He warned, blue eyes piercing the emerald green below him. "I can handle you talking shit about me, but god be damned if I let you talk shit about my brother. Or yourself," he added.

"Al... maybe we should all just get out of the house?" Matthew suggested, clearly growing more and more uncomfortable in this place. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to stick around last night; he felt as if he had ruined any progress Alfred had achieved with Arthur.

"Yeah... yeah, that sounds like a great idea, Matt." Alfred let a fake smile coat his lips as he looked up to his twin. "What about you Arthur, do you wanna get out of here? It'll give the staff some time to fix this place up."

Arthur stared up at him, puzzled. Did he want to go outside? Well, he certainly didn't want to stay in this room any longer. His mind drifted to the woman he had met just the previous night when he had roamed the world outside, and he felt slightly ashamed. Why, he didn't know. The human had given him very good advice, but he wasn't sure if he could follow it. He knew something was wrong with him. He wanted to get better, for this all to be some twisted, messed up dream and for him to wake up and still be friends with Kiku and to go out drinking with Francis, and to talk with his fairy friends, but he knew that wouldn't happen. This was real, it was HIS reality, HE made it this way, he had no one else to blame but himself. But how was he going to fix a problem when he didn't even know how it started?

Let him in, she'd said. Let him help you. But why Alfred? Because he was the only one who cared for him anymore, despite how fucked up that was. He didn't know why he stuck around, but he suspected it had something to do with his 'hero complex'.

With a heavy sigh and a hesitant flicker of his eyes as he searched the American's face, he nodded. "That sounds... refreshing, actually."

Alfred smiled a real smile, although guarded and a little surprised. He looked over at Matthew and snatched his hand from Arthur's shoulder and pulled the less enthusiastic nations behind him as he rattled off multiple places to visit. Arthur and Matthew could only give each other worried glances as they were dragged all the way to the front desk, as Alfred explained they were going to need a new door for their room much to the confusion of the human at the table before Alfred dashed away hailing a cab, leading his twin and former brother to the yellow and black car.

OoOoOoO

Ludwig gripped the back of the couch with such force he could hear the groaning of the wood, threatening to give under his constricting, vice-like hold. Felicano swallowed loudly, shivering a bit in nervous anticipation and fear. His head was bent downwards, just slightly. He was trying to appear as brave as he could be but Ludwig, and the very FEEL of him behind his back, made him want to curl further into himself and shrivel into non-existence.

"V-Vhy are you doing zis?" Germany's voice cracked. He growled deeply, annoyed at the show of weakness in such a time as this and cleared his throat loudly, making the Italian cringe below him. He could see his shoulders shake with anxiety and caution. Fear.

It made the German grind his teeth together and his brow to scrunch together heavily over his closed eyes. He didn't want to be feared, not by this man, but he knew the Italian's fear had a right to be there. Ludwig had helped him dig that trench and pushed Italy in it. Now, after they had hit rock bottom in their relationship, he was cruel enough to toss a shovel in there for him to dig deeper, and further away.

He knew he should just leave, let it be, go, to stop this nonsense while he still could - but he couldn't. He just... he couldn't. He loved this man, he had ALWAYS loved this man. The one he grew up with, forgot about when he was re-birthed as Germany, fought against and beside, the one who helped him remember, who helped him grow and care and love others. The one who trusted him when no one else did, who cared when others feared him, who stood beside him even when he betrayed and hurt him, who always crawled back. Who wanted to go, leave, stop the dangerous obsession he was gaining. The one who told him no, to stop, to let him be, the one who ran away and hurt him the most, the one he won't let go. No matter what.

"Look at me." The smaller nation only trembled more. "Italy." He pressed. "Look."

The brunette shook his head viciously, side to side, scrunching his eyes shut until he could see the colors swirl from behind his lids.

"Why not?"

The response was silence.

"Is it because of vhat happened last time? If so, I'm sorry." He wasn't. Why should he be? They were meant to be. Germany and Italy, Italy and Germany. Made for each other, built for each other. If he had to lock him in a room for two weeks for him to see that, then so be it. He would do what ever it took for him to understand. He only wanted him to be safe. And the only way for Italy to remain that way was to love him, to let Germany protect him. He couldn't if he kept pushing him away.

Italy did not reply. The only sign that he had indeed heard what Ludwig had said was that he'd flinched when he'd mentioned the past.

"Feliciano," Germany whispered, bending lower to hiss into his ear, "talk to me, please don't push me away again. I don't enjoy locking you up but I will if I have to." Italy's violent shaking was causing him to clench and un-clench his fists, twisting the couches covering material in his hand. Germany couldn't resist liking his lips, imagining liking the others' soft, trembling body, pushing those thin, yet fit legs open and spreading him wide for himself to lavish and love. Germany's hot breath coursed over his skin as he breathed into the shell of the others ear and whispered darkly, "Ich liebe dich."

A sob-like hiccup fell from the Italians lips and he choked out, "No, please don't."

"Nein?" Ludwig questioned. "Vhy?"

"Don't." It was all Italy could think. "Just please, DON'T. I can't... I can't take it anymore." He tried to stand up but Germany pushed him back down by his shoulders roughly, squeezing the trembling man harshly. "Please!" Feliciano's voice became more panicked, he just wanted to go, he knew it was a bad idea to meet up with this man for a friendly, business lunch. Oh god, why did he do it? "No more, don't hurt me anymore, please, Ludwig, don't."

"Hurt you?" The words came out of Germany's mouth, feeling foreign and revolting. He felt like spitting to rid himself of the very TASTE of those words from forming in his mouth. "I vould NEVER hurt you!" He replied, sounding completely shocked. _Yeah, and locking him up in rooms and having your way with him is not hurting him, right? Didn't you say the same when Hitler was in power? ' I'm HELPING?'_

'Shut up,' he hissed to his conscience. 'That was different. He was supposed to change our country, to help us with our problems.'

_And look at how well THAT turned out, right. He made not only you a disgrace, but your people murderers. He said he was helping too right, just like you're doing now?_

'It was DIFFERRENT!'

_HOW, exactly, is locking someone up and harassing them any different than this? You are REPEATING the past. STOP._

'No.'

_YES_

'I can't.'

_You can._

"I WON'T."

Feliciano sobbed louder this time, clearly freaking out. The grip on his shoulder was making his bones grind together and the flesh bruise. The hands were pushing him deeper into the couch from behind, further into the abyss Ludwig had dragged them into. "You're hurting me NOW!"

"HOW?" Hurting him? How was he hurting him? He was showing him how much he cared, he wasn't hurting him. _You're crushing him into the sofa, _he told himself. _Sure you aren't._

"I'm NOT."

_You are._

"Yes you ARE!" Italy wailed as Ludwig dug his blunt nails into his pale skin.

"NO, I'm NOT!" Ludwig roared releasing him suddenly before slamming his fists down onto the back of the couch again, making the whole thing tip backwards dangerously for a moment before thumping to the floor again.

Feliciano pulled his legs up to his chest and felt himself begin to hyperventilate. Germany was losing it again. It happened from time to time, and it was terrifying. Momentary lapses here and there where he would snap mentally, lose himself in his desire, forget about the rules and even his own conscience. When he would do whatever he wanted, let himself go and succumb to his wants and desires, to have FUN and do dangerous things that he normally wouldn't let himself pull off.

'Almost like Jekyl and Hyde,' Italy thought ruefully to himself. And every time he came to again he was so, so guilty. But lately, he slipped in more often and for longer periods of times. The last time he had seen him, he was in this same state of mental relapse for an entire week. The German had locked him into a room and did whatever he felt was 'justified' to get his love for the Italian across. He had forgave him. When Ludwig snapped out of it he just left, he didn't hit him, yell at him, nothing. He was a coward. He loved him. And he wished he didn't. Because people who love you… don't do things like this to you. They don't kidnap and beat you. They don't rape you.

But, like a sickness, Ludwig had infected Italy with it, broken down his immune system and whittled away at his will and strength until he was dependent on the other, whether he liked it or not. Ludwig didn't see it that way; no, what he saw was love. He was in love and Italy was too stupid, too blind to see it and accept it. So Ludwig had to SHOW him he needed him, and if he had to beat him, just to show that others would hurt him more, to keep running back, he would. And Italy did. Why? He didn't know.

He had told the German that they couldn't be together anymore. It hurt too much, to watch the other do their duty as nations to betray each other and sleep with other people, only to go to bed with the scent of another on their skin. The guilt, the regret. He couldn't stand the look on the other's face, the feeling HE got when Germany would kiss him with the taste of another on his lips. Not because they WANTED to, but because it was NECESSARY. And he wasn't sure if that was better or worse. Because, as sure as people died, they would need to do it again. And again and again and again.

And even though Germany begged, pleaded for him to stay - that they could fix it - he was a coward who did the only thing he knew how. Ran away. Ludwig, who was willing to throw away the rules he loved and adored so much, willing to throw them away for HIM and Italy pushed him away. Broke him. Built him up only to tear him down. Rip him apart until he was a shell, a monster of what he used to be. So Italy took the blame. It was his fault. And he would deal with it. He would remain by him, even if it killed him, but he was still afraid. Afraid of the other. What he could do. What he WOULD do. And Italy the fearful, the foolish, was brave even, STUPID enough to return every time. Trying to fix his mistakes, to help his friend, the man he loved but could never be with, only to run away again. Push him away. It was a vicious cycle, one that neither would quit. Not that they could; both were so entwined with the other they could never just... LET GO. It was impossible. But that didn't mean they liked it.

Italy turned slowly, cautiously, golden eyes looking up to the conflicted blues above him, gazing down at him with an intense stare. "You're the first one who broke my heart. For the rest of my life, you will always be the one who hurt me the most. Don't forget that."

Germany blinked down at him. "I broke YOUR heart?" He questioned dumbly. "I broke YOUR HEART?!" With a swift, rush of angry power, he yanked the back of the couch downwards, causing the piece of furniture to turn over and crash to the floor with the Italian still on it. He tumbled off and rolled to the steel-tipped boots of the German glowering hatefully down upon him. "I didn't turn you avay, I didn't push you out of my life, I didn't reject your love und call it a DISEASE!"

"Germany-"

"NEIN!" He yelled, frustration and panic seeping into his pores. "Vhat HAPPENED to 'vee, Ludwig, Ludwig, come und save me'?! Vhat on earth happened to ZAT man, ze man who looked up to me und ADORED me?! Who LOVED ME?" Ludwig could feel himself choke up. No, no, choking up was bad, he couldn't do that. He needed to be strong, to prove to Italy he was still strong, not damaged. How was he supposed to help him if Italy thought he was just another VICTIM?

"He... he's dead, Germany." Feliciano whispered. "He died a long time ago. After the war. He's BEEN gone. Why can't you just SEE it?!" Italy yelled. "Why can't you just LET IT GO! I don't LOVE you like that anymore! I care about you, I always will, but I do NOT. LOVE YOU!"

Silence filled the room. Even Italy's heaving chest let out a quiet air.

"Who killed him?" The question was short, simple, but oh so complicated. So much meaning in that question, that short, tiny, worthless question. It made Italy want to cry.

"You did." He whispered. "I did. The WORLD did." Ludwig stumbled back and collided with a tiny side table that was flush against the wall, a vase full of beautiful flowers wilting, dying. Germany tried to catch himself, his palm flying out and hitting the side of the table so fast it flipped the table over completely and glass shattered, water spilled, flowers cut, and petals ripped off, HOPELESS.

It was all hopeless.

He knew it, Germany knew it, they all knew it. Every nation in the world knew it, but they pushed on anyway. And Germany, poor, poor, Germany, was slumping against the wall, and once again, lost hope.

Italy stood on shaky legs and made his way to the door, refusing to look behind him. He couldn't. Because if he did, he would be pulled back, he would lose it, his will, his strength, and whither away like those flowers to a disease he wish he never caught.

LOVE.

And just as he turned the knob, a small voice called out, "What did him in? What was the last straw?"

A foul taste climbed up his throat as he fought down the bile rising into his mouth.

"America."

The door slamming was the only noise left in the room as Italy fled, running away once again, and abandoning hope.

((Wow. Just...FUCKING WOW. This sucked, I couldn't write a it all, it wasn't coming out, I don't like it, but this is all I could get out. I want you guys to do something for me. To pick where I am going to have America, Canada, and England go for their day out. I want some place that hasn't been overused in other stories. So no movies, zoo's, picnic's, ect. Something you haven't seen other writers use as get aways and days out before. I want to do something new and 'original'.

Sigh, now on the note of Germany. He is kind of Yandere in here. It's important for the story and America's involvement in here is a big reason why Italy and Germany spilt. When they did, Germany fell apart and see's the man Italy is now is completely different than the man he used to be, the one that loved him so he treats and talks about them as completely different people for the most part.

Soon, why I am going deeper into other pairing will be revealed and you'll understand why. Also, let me hear other pairings you would like to see in here. I may not pick them but it doesn't men its because I don't LIKE that pairing, it just might not fit in this story.

Thank you for waiting so long. Summer is almost here and I have been extremely busy with school, writers block, laziness and other awful things that I let get in the way of my productivity...sorry. But like I said. SUMMER IS ALMOST HERE, and new chapters are as well! Hoorah! XD))


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